Homecoming
by StarKatt427
Summary: Returning from a skirmish in the north, Peter must now face a certain dark haired little brother who still just happens to be horribly put out about being left behind. Set in the Golden Age. **Extra chapter up!**
1. Peter

**********Disclaimer********: I do not own anything in the world of Narnia****; everything belongs to C. S. Lewis.**

**A/N: ****Been a few months, but I'm finally getting around to publishing this story (which, I may add, has been finished for the most part since the middle of January, and I've been editing and rereading off and on ever since), and it's another long one; this one has a lot of imagery that I just couldn't bear to part with! I'm getting a little better at keeping them shorter now, so maybe this will be the last long one-shot for a while. I got the idea for this story around the time that I began writing _White As Snow_, and this is an episode that is sort of the follow-up to a scene Peter remembers in his chapter of _Forgiveness_, which you'll probably recognize if you've read it. I like getting to explore the older Pevensies while they are in Narnia;**** maybe I'll try to work with them again some time soon! **

**If you see any errors, I'd love to be informed so that I can fix them one day, and I hope this adds to your enjoyment of the world of Narnia and the wonderful bond shared between the Pevensie brothers.**

**StarKatt427**

* * *

_"A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city: and their contentions are like the bars of a castle."_  
Proverbs 18:19

* * *

Narnia was always beautiful, Peter reflected, whether it was good weather or bad. Most days, the blazing bright sun was shining brilliantly, the sky clear azure and filled with the puffy white clouds that he still looked for images in. In spring, days would be overcast and gray, clouds tinted with the blackness of rain, and then the downpour would commence and revitalize the earth. Summer brought about sultry dog days and inclement weather; and even storming and colored pitch black, there was something mesmerizing about the way the heavens crackled with neon lightning, thunder rolling overhead and sheets of rain falling hard like needles. The cool, crisp days of autumn were always his favorite, with the clean, spicy fragrance of the land and the leaves that changed from soft green to vibrant red and gold and orange. Wintry snow was beautiful and intimidating in its silence, coating the ground and trees and castle while icing the world over, making everything seem strangely peaceful and unnaturally still. He didn't dislike winter, though it was certainly not his favorite season; this opinion stemmed from his arrival in Narnia nearly a decade ago while it was still under the reign of the White Witch, though it grew harder and harder as the years passed for him to remember just _how _he had gotten to the magical country that was his home.

Today was beautiful blue and green, warm with the comfortable coolness of a breeze, and the High King of Narnia rode at the front of the travel party, leading the small army away from the blustery cold of Ettinsmoor and back into the rolling lush hills of Narnia. Few had been lost, but it was still painful for him to think of the ones who would never return to their loved one, and many had been wounded over the three day clash, the severest of injuries taken care of with just a single drop of cordial. The encounter had not quite been a skirmish, as Peter had not officially declared war on the Ettinsmoor Giants for their attack on a village of Talking Beasts, but any type of combat had a toll on the body and spirit, and Peter moved at a steady pace, ready to be home and knowing his troops were as well. Oreius, Peter's most trusted and wisest general and a friend he counted himself blessed to have, was to his left, his bottom horse half walking in sink with Peter's mount, and to the Magnificent King's right rode Lucy, who, at the ripe age of sixteen, had somehow managed to convince Peter to bring her along. He looked over at his youngest sister as she gazed around, a content half smile on her face; as she caught him looking at her, her smile widened, and he grinned back.

He had to admit that allowing her to come had been wise and had even saved his own life. When he had first announced his plan to lead a small party north to the Giants at the end of the previous month, he had assumed it would be only Edmund going with him, as Susan was not overly fond of battle and Lucy, in his opinion, was still too young to partake in it, even though she was capable with a sword and especially skilled with a dagger. But that had been before Edmund had returned from a day ride along the borders of the Western Wood with his left shoulder wounded by the arrow of a vicious Black Dwarf. Lucy, thankfully, had insisted upon going, and had been able to disable the Dwarf and tend to Edmund: she had removed the arrow and cleaned the wound, but had been unable to administer the healing cordial that would completely cure him on account that Peter had ordered her a few years prior to only carry it on her person in serious times of need. Nearly half a day's ride away from the castle and with afternoon steadily approaching, she'd had the good sense to forbid Edmund from even mounting his horse for fear that his wound would reopen or, worse, he would become feverish, and had made him rest. She'd sent a message through a Dryad back to the Cair, and Peter had been informed that his brother had been injured and was too weak to ride, his sister had bandaged the wound, and that they would be spending the night at the lodgings of a family of Badgers.

This last bit, knowing they were at least out of the forest, had done little to comfort Peter; he'd been a wreck. Determined to go to them, he'd nearly had a fight with Susan, who had pointed out that, logically, there was little he could do if he did go to them, and as they would be back the next day and Edmund was in no grave danger, there was nothing to do but wait and pray that Aslan would watch over them. Peter, only somewhat subdued, had ended up strolling the halls of the castle and pacing about his chambers, unable to relax; Edmund was hurt, Lucy wouldn't be very much protection if they were attacked, and he could do nothing about it.

Pulled back from his thoughts, Peter was looking ahead once more, gaze steady over the grassy hills to the west. There had been no need to worry as he had, he knew that, but when his youngest siblings had entered the castle the following afternoon and Edmund had been healed, he'd been unable to do much beyond repeatedly inquiring if they were alright, his hands cradling one's face and then the other's, eyes searching for any sign that they might be otherwise injured. He could remember Susan's amused, slightly shaky laughter as Lucy had thrown her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug while assuring him that she was perfectly fine, kissing him on the cheek and giggling as he'd lifted her off her feet. Edmund, careful of his newly healed shoulder, had thrown his good arm around the older king's neck and smiled impishly, eyes filled with an exasperated fondness.

Edmund; Aslan, he missed his younger brother. And Susan. Weeks away from any of his three siblings made him feel incomplete, but it was worse without his brother. Maybe it was because they had almost constantly been together the last several years, side by side. Or maybe it was just because Edmund was like his other half, his little brother everything he himself was terrible at; Edmund was his polar opposite, but, like magnets, they were drawn towards one another and were inseparable when together, a force to be reckoned with.

"Your Majesty." Oreius' deep voice rang out beside him, and Peter looked to his friend. "How are you fairing?"

Peter's smile froze, then slipped just slightly, before he had it back perfectly in place. "I'm fine."

"Liar," Lucy said, accusation in her voice, although she was still smiling slightly when he turned to her; it was now more of a troubled cringe. "You're clearly in pain. And you told me you were fit to ride. Promised me, actually."

He winced. "I thought I was. Is it that obvious?"

"Not very much so," Oreius said. "Just to the ones who have come to recognize your movements."

In his defense, Peter _had _thought he was well enough to ride. It had been days since his injury, after all, and it shouldn't have even been as bad as it was; but the dull, persistent pain had begun to return with his steed's every step. On the second day of battle, one of the smaller, smarter Ettins had, using a saw-like blade rather than the customary club, hit Peter with a well-aimed slash that tore through the chainmail he'd worn and sliced his skin. He'd been able to jerk away and take down the Giant, most of the pain blocked out by the adrenaline streaming through his veins, and, believing his injury no more than a flesh wound, he had trudged on.

At last, the Ettins retreated and he, in turn, had nearly collapsed from blood loss; luckily, he'd been caught by two Fauns and was swiftly half dragged to the tent set up for the wounded, Lucy immediately helping him onto a cot. Once the armor was removed and the wound visible, she'd shown great strength that day by biting down on her trembling lip and quickly administering a drop of cordial (though he had been extremely adamant in his argument that others needed it more than he did and had tried to refuse until his head swam and throbbed). It had been a killer getting the bleeding to stop, but then the torn skin slowly reformed and muscles repaired, and it had healed rapidly, though it left behind a lingering burn that had ached most of the night.

When dawn came, though still horribly sore and weak, he had led one last attack and had come out victorious, driving the Giants back and reminding them just who they were up against; Narnians were not to be trifled with, and neither was he.

It hadn't been the wound itself that had been the problem and bothered Lucy, but the amount of blood he had lost; he hadn't even felt the lifeblood slipping away due to the battle induced haze. It had weakened him more than his pride would allow him to admit, and after the final day of fighting, he had unceremoniously collapsed and drifted into a deep sleep in his hammock, faintly aware of Lucy sitting at his side and brushing the lengthening hair away from his eyes. Now, after four days since he'd been injured, nothing was left but a thin, tender scar that went from just below his armpit to his right hip, its edges still puffed with healing skin. He'd convinced Lucy the morning they had begun the trek home that he was feeling much better, but the days wore on, and while the pain was lessening, it was murder riding a horse, every other step jostling his side and sending burning aches shooting up his body. He'd thought he'd done fairly well at concealing the pain he was in, but his sister and general had apparently caught on, just as they had the day before, and the day before that.

"When we get home," Peter directed to Lucy, "I promise I'll rest."

"Good. You haven't been sleeping well," she observed curiously, concernedly. "Is it the wound?"

"No, not really anymore," he answered. It wasn't, although he was unable to lay comfortably on his right side yet. No, it was just the restlessness to be home that kept him awake, the longing for familiar land and sandy beaches, warm corridors and the softness of his bed. More than anything, however, was the fierce yearning to see his brother and sister—especially Edmund. They had parted on…well, difficult terms, Peter knew, and so he was unsure how his brother would react to his homecoming. It made him slightly nervous, especially when he imagined Edmund as he had been the day they'd left, eyes dark with some repressed emotion at being forced to remain behind, mouth set in a pronounced frown.

Edmund understood. He _had _to understand why Peter hadn't allowed him to come.

One of Lucy's thin eyebrows lifted, eyes knowing. "It's Edmund, isn't it?"

Peter remained silent, knowing his lack of verbal response would be answer enough.

"He'll be over it by now," she continued, voice only partly convinced; she knew just as well as he did how obstinate their brother could be at holding grudges. "And even if he isn't, you'll work it out. You always do."

"I thank you, wise sister of mine," he said affectionately, still unable to resist her ability to make him feel better, even if it was just a small bit.

She smiled, a grin somewhat similar to Edmund, he realized, with her nose scrunched up the way it was. "You'd be lost without me, all of you."

He laughed heartily and winked at her.

They rode on for another hour, Peter brushing off Lucy's question as to if they should rest and ignoring the amused glances Oreius shot him; the pain wasn't that bad, and even if it had been, he would never have confessed to it. Edmund was probably the only person who could actually get him to rest.

_Edmund. Home._

As if brought on by his thoughts, Peter caught sight of a refracted light in the distance: the sun shining on a glass roof. He could slightly see the top of white towers, flags in the distance. Cair Paravel. Slowly, he began to smile.

Next to him, Lucy released a relieved, joyful laugh, and he looked at her. She returned the gaze, her blue eyes twinkling and ash brown hair flying wild about her face in the breeze, grin infectious, as Peter found himself smiling as well. Lucy reached out one of her small, slender hands, and Peter gripped it with conviction.

Almost there.

* * *

When they arrived, Susan was waiting for them at the front entrance, her fair features lighting up as Peter and Lucy rode in, followed by the troops. A wide smile lifted Peter's mouth, and before his horse had even come to a halt, he was climbing off, eyes on his eldest sister, and then he was half running to her and she to him in a most unladylike manner. Susan threw her arms around him tightly, and his went to wrap around her waist, and he lifted her off her feet, squeezing her securely as she laughed into his tunic.

They pulled back a quick moment later, Susan smiling beautifully up at him, sky eyes swirling with relief and joy.

"Welcome home, brother," she said softly.

"It's good to be home," Peter replied, taking her face in his hands and pressing a firm kiss to her forehead.

Her eyes scanned over him, and she laughed, staring down at his traveling tunic, his frayed cape and boots, coated with dirt. "You're filthy."

"My apologizes, but I have been a bit engaged in other matters," he replied with affectionate sarcasm.

Her eyes softened. "At least you've returned in one piece. That's all that matters."

Before he had time to comment, a cry of "Susan!" rang out. As if she had been restraining herself and allowing him the first chance to greet their sister, Lucy's shout was ecstatic and clear as bells, and she flew at the elder queen, not even worried about tripping over her long skirts. Peter had just enough time to release Susan before Lucy had her arms thrown around her big sister, and Susan's arms draped around her thin back.

Peter watched with fondness as Susan spoke softly to her, words he could not hear and was not meant to, and he turned away from the private moment, signaling for Oreius to lead the soldiers to the armory to disarm and freshen up. After the Centaur nodded and the army had quietly began walking away, Peter looked back at his sisters to see Susan pull back enough to take a good look at Lucy. Her hands began skimming over the younger woman's face and shoulders and arms, eyes slightly worried. "You weren't hurt, were you? I know you brought the cordial, but—"

"I'm fine, I'm perfectly fine," Lucy promised through laughter, placing a kiss to each of her cheeks. "And it's a good thing I did bring it with me, for Peter always has to be dramatic and get himself wounded, just like our other stubborn brother."

Immediately, the twenty-year-old's eyes locked on Peter, and he found himself at the center of her gaze, a little ill at ease and trying not to fidget. "That's right," she said, voice no more than a whisper, as she released Lucy and turned to him. "We received word that you'd been injured, but I was so happy when I saw you coming in that I forgot." She lifted her hand tentatively, not quite sure if she should touch him. "You…you're _are _alright now, aren't you?"

Peter smiled, taking her hand and placing it to his jaw reassuringly, and she beamed softly at him. "Better than when I left. I'm just a little sore, is all."

"And a lot exhausted," came Lucy's remark, her mouth quirked in a half smile; but her eyes were no longer as cheery, and he knew she was thinking about just how much blood he had lost. Over Susan's head, he gave a swift, grateful smile, knowing she would not tell either of their siblings just how bad it had truly been. She resisted for a moment, and then she gave him a real smile, eyes going back to their previous exuberance.

Susan pursed her lips. "You really should get some sleep," she observed.

"Like I promised Lucy, I will," he appeased. "For now, though," he continued, encircling her waist with his left arm, "I want to hear all about how things have faired while we were away."

Her lips lifted in a smile, her own hand landing on his right side, and he fought down the grimace when she touched the tender scar; thankfully, she positioned her hand so that she was no longer touching it, and he was able to smile.

"Oh, yes, do tell," Lucy laughed, coming up to latch herself onto Peter's other side for just a moment. He looked down, slightly confused as to why she was not clinging to Susan. Seeing his raised eyebrow, she rolled her eyes and grinned, standing on her tip toes to place a swift kiss to his cheek, then leaning her head against him. With a soft laugh, he leaned against her for a moment, kissing the top of her head; even after years, she was still his baby, and she knew it. Her hand on his back disappeared, and Lucy went behind them to Susan, both of her arms holding onto her sister's free one, her head resting on the older girl's shoulder.

Susan merely chuckled, holding onto their little sister, and the three began walking into their home. "Quiet, actually. No trouble, a few petitions, but nothing serious. Everything has been well, for the most part."

"'For the most part'?" Peter inquired, looking down at her.

She sighed. "Yes. While everything without has been peaceful, within is another matter entirely."

Understanding dawned on him, nearly stopping him in the process. "You mean Ed."

Susan bit her lip as she looked at him, Lucy watching from the left. "Peter, you know he wasn't exactly thrilled when you departed, especially when you add the fact that you made him stay behind."

"He knows why I wouldn't let him come," he argued.

"But that doesn't mean he's not upset." They were in the Great Hall now, and she stopped, as if to emphasize the importance of what she was saying. "You know how he hates not being at your side during battle. And don't argue—" she said quickly, catching the way his lips had parted to do just that, "—because you're just as bad."

Peter frowned. Did she _have _to be so rational? "True," he admitted, "but this is ridiculous. He can't be too mad still, can he?"

Something in her eyes hardened; not anger, more like tension. Lucy, though unable to look into her eyes like he, clearly sensed the distress in her sister, and she moved from her side to Peter's so to see their sister better. "Susan?"

"He hasn't talked to me all that much, so I can't be sure," she said softly. "We've talked, but not like when all of us are here; mostly quick conversations, and a few times I've even gotten him to laugh. But I haven't seen him all that much these last weeks."

"What's he doing, hiding?" Peter asked in frustration; good grief, his brother could be a real fool sometimes.

"Not exactly. I think he's just been too worried to really want to talk," she amended. "He got really quiet after…after we'd received news you'd been hurt."

_Oh._ A stab of guilt coursed through his veins. He had told Lucy not to send word, nearly begged, but she had calmly argued that if it were Edmund injured, wouldn't he want to know? He'd given in after that with no small amount of unease, unsure what his siblings would imagine but praying Lucy would assure them when she sent the message through a tree spirit that he wasn't seriously injured. Now, looking at Susan's tired face, he could see that she was worried, though she tried to hide it, both because of his injury and their brother's behavior. And if he truly knew Edmund as well as he did, he had a feeling his brother was making himself sick; he hated the very idea.

Peter swallowed thickly. "How was it?"

"Frightening," she said, and Lucy reached out and took hold of her hand. Susan held it tightly. "We knew it wasn't fatal, but we were told you had lost a lot of blood, and that made everything worse. Edmund nearly broke his neck trying to reach Phillip and ride to you." The left side of her full lips quirked into a smile. "Reminds me of another thick headed brother I have."

Peter couldn't even smile back. Lion's Mane, what had he done? Edmund had been half scared out of his wits, Susan left alone to deal with him, and he'd been miles away, too slow to avoid a denticulate blade and lying unconscious in some tent.

"And how is he now?" Lucy asked gently, bringing him back.

Susan sighed. "Far too quiet. He's barely said ten words to me since we were told of your injury. After I managed to get him back inside that day, he…he just seemed to shut down. Peter, he was terrified," she said miserably. "I don't think I've ever seen him like that."

_Oh, Edmund. _Peter pulled his hands into fists, fingernails sharp against his rough palms. His brother was just as fiercely protective of Peter as he was of Edmund, and so that often led to trouble: near panic attacks, the inability to keeping anything edible down, the desperate ache that was fear. Peter knew these symptoms well, as it had only just been some weeks since he'd experienced them himself over knowing Edmund had been hurt.

"I stepped into his room early this morning, and his sleep was fitful. I doubt he's had a decent night's rest since you left."

Peter groaned, his arm slipping away from Susan. "Please tell me he hasn't gone and made himself sick?"

Her eyes were answer enough, but she spoke anyway. "I'm afraid that he might have. I'm not sure if it was just from nightmares, but he did not look well when I checked on him."

He gripped at his hair with a hand, eyes slipping shut. "This is my fault," he mumbled, more to himself than to his sisters.

Lucy had her hands on his chest at once, shaking her head ardently. "No, Peter, no. You had nothing to do with this."

Peter opened his eyes, gut wrenching. "But if I had let him come—"

"He could have been hurt," Susan interrupted, "and then what a fine mess we'd be in: both of you injured, and as protective as you are of Ed and him of you, you would have nearly killed yourself and condemned your own injuries to make sure he was alright."

He could say nothing, knowing that she was correct. His mouth, which had just been open, closed.

"We know you, brother," said Lucy, one of her hands moving up to touch his cheek, brushing her palm across the stumble on his jaw. "And we know Edmund. Not as well as you do, but we understand him as much as we can." She smiled. "You two will be fine. You always are. I, and Susan, have faith in the both of you."

Susan looked warmly at her sister, then nodded at Peter, features no longer as anxious.

Peter placed his hand on Lucy's, holding it tightly, before letting go and giving them a smile that was troubled but grateful; he didn't deserve to have the two beautiful, intelligent sisters he had, both so caring and gentle and brave, Susan's logic often enough to keep him steady and Lucy's happiness sometimes the best thing to get him laughing. "Thank you," he said to the both of them, one arm going around Lucy's shoulders and the other once again around Susan, and he pulled them both to him in a hug. His youngest sister giggled and his oldest gave a soft laugh, and both buried their faces in his shirt.

When he released them, Peter sighed, half wistful. "I guess it's time," he said.

Lucy placed her hand on his hip, gentle over the scar, a reassuring gesture. She smiled. "Just go to him."

He gripped her shoulder, then turned to Susan. "I don't suppose I could surprise him, could I?"

She shook her head. "I looked in just before you arrived, and he was staring out the window. He knows you're here."

Although he had suspected this, he was unable to push down the hurt that bubbled up in his chest. Edmund knew he was home; so why hadn't he come to meet him, and Lucy for that matter, with Susan? It stung more than he would like to admit, especially after Susan had explained how he had been acting the last few weeks. What if he really had angered Edmund so greatly that he didn't plan on letting him even try to talk to him? The thought was, he admitted, horrifying, and his heart twinged.

He took a deep breath, only somewhat achieving the calming effect he had hoped for, and released his sisters. "Well, then. Guess I'd better get going."

* * *

Peter had kindly brushed off his sisters' request to eat and freshen up and had left Susan and Lucy in the youngest girl's room so that she could change from her travel dress and have a hot meal brought up to her. Although he himself was beginning to feel hunger pangs, he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to keep much down, and washing up wasn't important at the moment; his eyes were burning with fatigue, mind trying to cloud over with sleep, but he pushed it down. Though his room was just a door away, he didn't stop by his own chambers, and so his sword remained resting against his left hip, his cape stayed on his back, and the travel dust continued to coat his hair and clothing as he walked over the lush red carpet to Edmund's door.

As he stood in front of the door, trying to rope in his tension and relax, he found it impossible. His body felt jerky and high-strung, nerves charged with electricity as they twisted throughout him; he wasn't sure if it was due to apprehension or excitement or both. He lifted his hand to the thick door and placed his palm to the smooth, aged wood. Knocking would not be necessary; Edmund would know it was him.

Letting his hand rest there for just a moment longer, he slowly took hold of the handle and opened the door.

His brother's room was, like his, furnished with heavy, convivial furniture, their colors deep browns and creamy whites, and velvety red curtains fell over the windows. Tapestries hung from the walls in burgundies and golds, the colors of Narnia, a divan of the same shades to the far left. A simple wooden desk, the chair that was supposed to be pushed beneath it off to the side, in the corner, a small shelf of his brother's favorite books above it; a large chest at the foot of the great canopied bed, the Lion's emblem upon it; a wardrobe almost directly in front of Peter, a tall mirror beside it; a door to the left that led into the bathing chamber; an extra chair in the nearest corner, adorned with heraldic embellishments, and a peg that was connected to the wall beside the bed, a dagger and two swords suspended on the belt that hung there.

Peter's room, though quite similar, was larger and had a bit more furniture, but this room was just as familiar to him as his own. He had spent countless hours in the chair that sat in the corner, pulled out to speak with his brother in animated conversations, and he often picked it up and placed it at his brother's bedside, watching him sleep during a restless night. Often enough, he had slept in here rather than his own bedroom, but if asked, Edmund would have answered the opposite; when they were younger, still boys, really, they had often fallen asleep entangled in the bed sheets of one's room one night and the other's the next. He knew every nook, which shadows were cast in the darkness and which in the daylight, and could tell by the room's conditions what mood the inhabitant was in.

It was a mess. Papers, usually kept fairly neat upon the desk, were scattered everywhere, many covered with smeared black ink, and balls of crumples parchment littered the floor surrounding the table. The bed linens were a twisted mess at the foot of the bed, the pillows pounded flat. Looking down, he saw the lavish carpet beside the bed held clear signs of pacing. Books were spread everywhere: the chairs, the chest, the corner of one peaking out from beneath the bed. Rays of sunshine lit the room as they poured in through the large windows, but it did little to lighten the atmosphere; there was a shadowed gloom to it.

So when Peter looked to the window seat and found Edmund staring out the casement, he wasn't too surprised to see his brother's room truly did reflect the teenager's mood.

Edmund's back was pushed against the farthest side, giving Peter a clear look at his profile, his entire body screaming exhaustion and pessimism, the last word bringing an awful amount of pain to Peter. Though he was not slouched, his body seemed unnaturally listless; Edmund, who was always so full of quiet vitality, bouncing around almost as badly as Lucy one minute and as tranquil as Susan the next, almost always calm but a mighty tempest when his patience finally snapped. As Peter shut the door softly and slowly walked in, he looked over his brother's profile: bare feet, a loose sleeping tunic over night leggings, the thin shirt stuck to the skin at his chest. His hair, just now long enough to curl, hung over his forehead, unkempt black locks coiling over the back of his neck. The clean tang of feverish sweat wafted over the room from the distance, and he was pale, even more so than usual, like he hadn't been outside in a long while and the lack of fresh air and natural sunlight was finally getting to him, bleaching his skin of what little color it already had.

Peter walked toward Edmund with measured steps, making sure his boots scraped over the stone floor, and stopped several feet from him, hands held unsurely at his sides, itching to grasp Rhindon out of habit; the sword was solid, stable. Not like he felt at the moment as he watched his brother.

"You look terrible," came a soft, slightly hoarse voice.

Peter jumped, eyes widening. He himself had been thinking that about his brother. "Edmund?"

"I can see your reflection." He said it simply, dark eyes still staring out the window. "And, if this is an accurate image of you, I can see that you also seem nervous."

_Of course he can tell_, Peter thought, attempting to keep his face neutral; but while the task was easy with everyone else, around Edmund, he could never hide anything for long.

"What? Has something bad happened?"

He did not like the flatness of his brother's voice, almost like he was just asking to be polite. His mouth slipped into a slight frown, even though he wasn't really mad. "No. Everything's fine."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh," Edmund repeated.

This time, anger did rise up at Edmund's indifference; Peter knew he was mad and upset, but did he have to be so detached? He couldn't even understand this side of his brother.

"Did you win?"

Did _you_? There was something about the way he had phrased the question, like it was just concerning Peter, and he felt a pain swell up in his chest and wrap around him, quenching his irritation; he hadn't missed the slightest of unsteadiness in Edmund's voice. At least he had drawn that out of him.

Still, the way Edmund had said it made the whole thing sound like Peter had fought single handedly, which was surely not the case, and he exhaled a breath. "Yes, we won," he replied, tone softer now as he corrected his brother's words. He could see the muscles in Edmund's jaw contract, then slacken, as he gave a faint nod.

"Alright then."

Peter said nothing, and there was silence between them. Surprisingly, though, it did not last very long, because Edmund turned his gaze to his hands. Peter saw him swallow. "How's Lucy?" he asked, something gentler coloring his tone.

He felt himself smile quickly as his littlest sister briefly flashed across his mind. "Amazing. You should have seen her. She was incredible." Peter saw her as she had been just days ago, not actually partaking in the battle but combating a small Giants in battle nonetheless when he neared the makeshift infirmary, dagger flashing in her hand as she swiftly sped to jab the blade into one of its feet, then the other, reaching up and slashing across its kneecap, sending it sniveling and mumbling guttural curses as it had crawled away. The encounter had scared him, just like it would have with any of his siblings, and he had had his arms around her as soon as they were sure it was gone, whispering praise and asking if she was alright. But Lucy, the valiant young woman she was, had laughed and hugged him back; she knew it was hard for him to remember she could take care of herself most of the time.

The memory came and went quickly, and Peter was left watching Edmund. A twitch of his brother's mouth, barely a smile. "I bet she was." The _I wish I could have seen her_ was tacit, but Peter heard it clearly, as if it had been spoken, and a sliver of guilt ran through him. He brushed it off for the most part though, recalling the determination he'd felt the day before they had left for the North when he'd told Edmund he couldn't come; he'd had to keep him safe. He had still not quite completely regained his equilibrium, and if anything had happened to him…

There had to be something Peter could do though, something he could say. "Maybe you'll get to see her next time."

He could see the tendons in his brother's neck twitch, saw the skin around his eyes tighten, and Edmund slowly looked up at Peter.

Peter felt something rip through his heart, and his breath caught in his throat as Edmund looked at him with shadowed, indecipherable eyes. His brother's face was blank, a fact unnerving in itself, save for the slight upward twist of his lips; usually, there was more liveliness to his features, whether in the form of an irritated scowl or a snarky smile, a dubious frown or a thrilled grin. Now, though, Peter could see nothing even similar. Edmund looked exhausted, cheekbones sharp against his skin and dark half circles beneath his heavy eyes, brows furrowed over them.

His _eyes_. They had always been deep, brown and keen, unreadable most of the time. They could be bright with sarcasm one moment and seeping chilling rage the next, rarely demonstrative in their gaze but like pools of melting chocolate when he decided to show his affectionate side; heated by fortitude during a battle and then utterly terrified just after as he made sure Peter and his sisters were safe. His eyes were, when he permitted them to be, like windows to his very soul, but it was more of a rarity for Edmund to actually allow anyone to see what he truly felt.

But now, they betrayed nothing; brown eyes kept unusually vacant, as if on purpose.

And Peter was more scared than he'd been in a while, more so than when Lucy had dashed round the Giant's feet in a graceful dance, than the moment when he'd wondered if he really would bleed to death. This fear came more often than he'd like, a sharp, powerful twinge like a razor that made his heart rip past his ribs and his stomach fly into his chest, his mouth go dry and pure terror course through his veins, tainting his blood and nearly making his vision blur: this fear was only brought about by his little brother, and it was the worst kind possible.

As if able to sense Peter's distress, there was another twist of Edmund's lips, more of a slight grin. "I may just hold you to that," he stated.

Seeing the dark haired man like this made Peter suddenly, painfully, aware of just how deeply he had missed Edmund; his brother, his other half. And then the wanting came, a fierce desire to touch him, to place his hand to the thinner boy's shoulder and grip it surely, to ruffle his hair and make him grin that rogue, affectionate smirk, see his eyes sparkle with that intense fire he loved so much.

It would have been different had he run out with Susan to greet them, his disposition unimportant; as long as he'd at least shown some sign that he still cared, that would have been enough. But this Edmund was one even Peter didn't know, had never seen before, not even when he had been rescued from the White Witch. This Edmund was distant and aloof, a husk of the young man Peter had left behind, and he would gladly have had his brother screaming at him rather than saying nothing of importance, allowing nothing to slip; yet it was still obvious that, no matter how hard he was trying to seem apathetic, there was something burning inside Edmund. Peter saw a flash of it every now and then: a certain pull of the lips his brother couldn't stop it, a light seeping into his eyes that Peter understood immediately. Edmund had always kept up a wall around himself, but this? This was too much. While he tried to give off the appearance of indifference, Peter could see past that and into his brother's heart, and he knew he was hiding.

And he missed him even more for it.

"Edmund…"

"What's wrong?" Edmund asked. "You look ill."

Maybe he was; Peter didn't know anymore. "Edmund…you…"

To his shock, his brother's mouth curled into a slight smile, one that was not at all friendly and strangely cold. "When you were wounded," he inquired, "did you hit your head? That would explain your lack of articulacy."

"Ed, stop…" he whispered.

"Then again, the dryad said it was a sword wound. Strange, isn't it? Ettins usually go for clubs, but they'll sometimes use a jagged blade. It must have been especially nasty." Edmund's voice was filling with an emotion that was hot and derisive and faintly trembling. His eyebrows pulled down over his eyes, half of his mouth lifting into a wicked smile that was closer to a grimace. "Are you still recovering?"

"Please…" Peter nearly begged.

He could see something raging in Edmund's previously empty eyes, an emotion that truly was anger. "What's the matter, brother?"

And something snapped.

"_Shut up, Edmund!"_

The command was loud and filled with authority, despaired and angered all at once, disrupting the quiet and bringing about a crashing effect. Peter stood tall, his breath ragged, glaring down at wide eyes younger man. Ever since he had first entered the room, a taunt line had steadily begun to form and stretch inside his chest, and he had done well at controlling it. But hearing Edmund call him that sacred title with sneering spite instead of the solid affection that was always present…that had been the final straw.

Before he could give Edmund a chance to realize what he was doing and before he himself could completely understand what was taking place, Peter found himself moving forward and his hands tightly gripping the younger's shoulder, shaking him with just enough sternness to make his head jerk back. Edmund looked up at him with large, shocked eyes, clearly not expecting the response he'd received, though his ferocity was still apparent. "You…what is _wrong _with you?" Peter yelled. "Do you have any idea how much you're hurting us, or do you even care?"

Edmund's mouth pulled down in a pronounced frown, eyes darkening. "Of course I care," he replied, voice dangerously low.

"Really?" argued Peter. "Because I'm starting to wonder if you truly do. Or are you just being a bother on purpose? You seem like you could care less about anything, but that's a lie, and you and I both know it." Didn't Edmund see how much it was killing to say this, to yell at him and berate him, to have to say _that_?

Edmund glared up at him, the last bits of his apathetic composure slipping away and steadily progressing back into Peter's Edmund. "I do care, if you can actually believe it," he replied, hot currents beneath his barely restrained voice.

The anger would not settle, not now, and Peter pulled him forward by his shirt. "Then why are you trying to act like nothing matters? I _know _you, Edmund, and I _know _when you're hiding something. Don't you understand? It's not going to do any good! All you're doing is putting us through pain. Aslan, Ed, do you even see what you're putting _me _through?" he cried.

Hands slammed viciously into his chest, and Peter was nearly knocked over as Edmund jumped up, face contorted into something vicious and alight with hot, crackling energy. "Of course I do!" he screamed. "I know good and well what I'm doing, but I can't help it, alright?"

Peter was speechless. He looked at Edmund, anger vanishing and hands still outstretched toward him. Now that his rage was leaving him, he could think of nothing to say. "Ed…I don't understand," he muttered softly after a moment.

Edmund snorted, shoving him backward, and Peter didn't resist, still too shocked. "Of course you don't. You aren't supposed to."

"Why not?" Peter asked, fighting desperation. "You aren't even making sense."

"That's the point!" Edmund snarled, pushing at him again. "It wouldn't make sense to you, not to anyone but me. God, Peter, I _hate _this!"

Peter was genuinely scared, and confused, and it ate at him, the desire to comfort Edmund, to make whatever hurt he felt go away. But he didn't know how, and he wouldn't until Edmund told him. "Hate what? Please just tell me. Look, I know…I know you're upset, but—"

It did not come as a surprise that Edmund was irate, screaming in his fury and verbal abuse; Peter had known that the mask of unresponsiveness had been just that and nothing more. It stunned him, however, when his brother hoisted the chair from where it sat close to the desk and threw it at him, shouting out a curse. Jerking away just before the back of the chair hit his chest (Edmund's aim was near perfect), Peter watched at it hit the floor, chair legs breaking at the impact.

"No, Peter," Edmund yelled, even before the chair had hit the ground, "I am beyond upset! I am furious!" Face red with anger and chest heaving, sweat glistening on the skin of his throat, his brown eyes were wild.

Peter felt his jaw drop. Edmund couldn't be this mad about having to stay behind, could he? Or was it something else that had him so riled? "Edmund?" He walked to his brother, unable to deny the ache inside him as he raised a cautious hand to place on his brother's shoulder.

"_Do not_," Edmund snarled, voice as stiff as the glare he gave Peter from beneath black lashes, "touch me."

The hurt that shot through him was unfamiliar, far too painful than it should have been, and Peter's lips parted on a strangled breath, his hand lowering as he blinked at his brother, agonized. "_Why_, Ed? Please, _please_, just tell me what I've done."

Edmund would have tried to throw the desk, Peter knew it, but as it was too far away, he settled for a ragged, enraged exclamation that came out as a broken scream. "_You made me stay behind!_ _You_, Peter, who knows just how important every battle is, forced me to stay behind like some invalid, while you went and risked your life. That's not the way we work, and _you know it_!"

Peter stood, unable to speak. He'd known he'd hurt Edmund by making him remain home, but not like this. It shouldn't have had such an effect on him, but the fact that it did was like a white hot blade to his soul, excruciating and overflowing. He hadn't seen his brother this mad at him in years, and it frightened him. "Edmund, be reasonable," he began, hoping to achieve a calming tone and instead sounding far too shaky. "Now come on, this is—"

"Silly? Childish?" Edmund offered him. "You know something? I don't even care any more if I _am _being childish!"

Peter took as even a breath as he could manage. "You know why I couldn't allow you to come."

"That doesn't matter, Peter!" Edmund yelled, a sound that was horribly like a sob. "In eight years, this was the first time you openly forbad me from going into battle with you, where I am supposed to be. It's my duty to protect your back and make sure nothing touches you! But you wouldn't let me come. You even let _Lucy _go!"

"She needed the battle experience," Peter reasoned, but it did little good; if anything, it added more wood to the fire that was currently his brother's temper.

"Not against Giants, and especially Ettins! She's still too young to be partaking in a fight that serious."

Peter had a sound comeback to this: Edmund had been just ten when he'd fought the White Witch. But he astutely chose to keep his mouth shut, too afraid it might inflict more pain on his brother.

"Narnia can't lose her High King," Edmund said, switching the subject away from their sister. "This country needs you! _I _need you!" he said in a fit of desolation. "You're my _brother_, Peter. I can't lose you." His breath shuddered. "And I nearly did. Do you honestly think any of us could function without you? You _have _to return from battles alive! That's why I'm here, to guard your back and make sure you don't do anything so stupidly noble that you nearly die. Which, if I may add, almost _did _happen because I wasn't there to keep you from getting hurt, and there was absolutely nothing I could do because _YOU LEFT ME BEHIND_!"

Body rigid, Edmund glared at him with glassy eyes, the air ripping out of his lungs in uneven pants and his hands balled into fists.

And even with all of those angry words still ringing in his ears, Peter felt something light tug at him, and a faint smile tried to creep up his face; Edmund seldom spoke of just how much he needed him. Out of all the things he had screamed, this was the one Peter clung to the most strongly. Still, the truth in his brother's pain filled words did not go unnoticed, and he felt a sadness pull at him simultaneously. "Ed. What do you want me to say?"

A thick, painful snort, and Edmund turned away from him. "Nothing. It's not my place to expect anything from you."

"You should expect _everything _from me," he protested fervently; it didn't matter if it was because Peter was High King or just his elder brother, Edmund deserved everything he had to offer. He slipped around his brother to stand in front of him again, speaking even when Edmund looked away. "I know you're angry with me, but try to see it from my point of view. You could barely even handle a sword for more than ten minutes, and I didn't—"

"Yeah, I get that," he barked. "I know you think I would have been in the way and you didn't want me there, but that doesn't matter because that's where I was supposed to be."

Peter's even temper finally shattered as his brother horribly misunderstood his words. "Listen to me, you idiot!" he shouted, and, not even taking a moment to consider Edmund's earlier warning to refrain from physical contact, gripped him by his shoulders again. "You never get in my way, and I would never, _ever_, not want you fighting beside me. Even when I'm scared to death that you're going to get hurt again and nearly _die _like you did the first time, I want you with me because that's where you belong! I didn't let you come with us because I was afraid you'd get hurt even worse, and I wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, just like before. I'm not that brave, Ed; I can't risk that!"

Edmund's eyes were quivering, some of his anger having slipped away, and he looked almost like a frightened child. The sight tore at Peter, and he tightened his hold, fingers pressed flat against the younger's shirt and pushing against his skin.

Edmund's breath came in rough pants. "Peter, you…" he began roughly. "You still don't get it."

"Then help me get it," Peter pleaded. "Edmund, I know you're angry with me, and I am sorry for that." His hands loosened slightly, blue eyed gaze even with his brother's. "But I do not regret the decision of not allowing you to go. I got hurt; I'm scared to even imagine what might have happened to you."

His brother's mouth was open, eyes wide and filled with so much anguish, and Peter lifted a hand to stroke his calloused thumb over trembling lips. Edmund jerked under the touch, but did not pull away. "Brother?" Peter laughed shakily. "Say something."

He saw Edmund's fist come, aimed for his chest instead of his face, and caught it easily, barely having to force back the punch; his brother wasn't really aiming to hurt him. Peter heard Edmund suck in a breath, and then his other hand was coming at him, and Peter effortlessly seized his left fist and wrapped his hand firmly around the younger man's wrists, leaving Edmund trying to pull away from his grasp.

"Let go!" he said as he struggled fiercely, eyes anywhere but on Peter.

Peter, older and stronger, had no trouble keeping his hold on Edmund, especially when his brother's thrashing began to lessen. He bit his lip, fighting down the ache in his heart. Slowly, he lifted his brother's right hand and gently pulled it from its fist, caressing his thumb across the back of the pale hand, and Edmund watched, eyes wide and tormented and steadily growing shiny. Smiling softly down at their hands—his, larger and darker, and Edmund's, thinner but just as powerful—Peter lifted Edmund's and, without even the slightest hesitation, pressed his mouth to his brother's fingers.

"_Peter," _Edmund gasped unevenly, pupils so large that there was little brown left in his eyes as he watched him, and Peter felt the hand beneath his lips tremble.

Keeping his eyes locked with his brother's, Peter brushed a gentle, solid kiss to each of his knuckles, then let his lips remain against the back of his hand, looking up at his brother with a loving smile. "Edmund."

Edmund abruptly crumpled, falling in on himself and downward, and Peter had just enough time to latch onto him before the younger's knees slammed into the cold stone floor. "Hey! Ed, what's wrong?" Carefully, he lowered his little brother down and followed suit so that he was kneeling in front of him on one knee with Edmund on both.

His brother's shoulder jerked painfully, and he shook his lowered head. At the act, Peter felt something land on his hand, a silent drop of water against his skin.

His own breath halted, china eyes going round. "_Edmund?_"

"I am not _crying_!" he bit out, the catch in his voice betraying him. "I'm _not_!"

But Edmund was, and that was more heartbreaking than anything he could have ever said to him. Peter blinked wide, astounded eyes, not completely surprised by his brother's behavior but unaccustomed to seeing him in such a state; Edmund hadn't cried over him like this in years, not since he was at least fifteen, and he had never been an easy crier anyway. For Peter, who was now twenty-one and had long begun to more or less master his own emotions and control them under most circumstances, it came as a pleasant, painful shock to see is baby brother quietly allowing tears to slip before him. Tears, salty and warm and wet, dripped onto the back of his hands, and he watched as the eighteen-year-old before him bowed his dark-haired head, soft, repressed snuffles shaking his chest. "I missed you…I missed you _so much_…" Edmund sobbed, pressing his head against Peter's chest.

Breath trembling, he leaned over Edmund, mouth barely touching his dark hair. "Sorry," he apologized, lifting his hands to finally tangle them in the black tresses. "I'm so sorry, Edmund. For everything. Please—" Peter nearly choked on the thickness in his own throat, "—please say you'll forgive me."

Edmund's shoulders trembled with the wrenching half sobbed laugh that broke from his chest, and Peter felt his brother's hands clutching desperately at his own. He brought them to his face, dry lips pressing to them, an act that had Peter fighting the sudden stinging in the corners of his eyes. "Peter…" he trailed off, choked by tears, instead placing a kiss to the High King's fingers. "Of _course _I forgive you. I can't not. You know that."

"And I'm thankful for it. But I was afraid it might take more than an apology for you to actually say it."

Edmund sniffed, pressing the elder's hands to his forehead and to the eyes that he had closed on tears. "I don't even need an apology. Just the way you looked at me was enough." He sucked down a wet hitch. "It should be _me _asking _you _for forgiveness."

Baffled, Peter's hands slid down to rest on Edmund's shoulder blades, the heat from his brother's body unnaturally warm as it soaked into him, and he rubbed his fingers soothingly along the tense muscles. "Why would you say that? You've done nothing wrong."

"I wasn't fair to you. And I overreacted," Edmund said, his voice more under control, a fact Peter was thankful for; he wasn't good with seeing his brother in tears. "I know you were doing what was best, but…it still felt like you were torturing me by forcing me to remain here. It's my job to keep you safe." He jerked, a quick shudder, and bent his neck so that his face was against Peter's shirt, hands grasping at the tunic.

"Are you speaking as my fellow king, or as my brother?" Peter inquired, only half serious.

"Both," Edmund answered softly. "Don't you have any idea what it did to me when I heard you'd been wounded? Peter, I was…I was so scared."

Peter closed his eyes, arms tightening in their hold, and he planted his face against the mass of raven hair, breathing deeply and realizing just how good of an idea it had been to not tell Edmund how much blood he had lost; his brother's reaction would have ten times worse if he'd known. _Edmund, you hardheaded fool. _"And how do you think I feel when I hear you've been wounded a half-day's ride away, and I'm unable to do anything? When I have to wait an entire afternoon, night, and morning, wondering if your wound has turned without the cordial and knowing it's my fault if it does because I wouldn't let Lucy bring it along?"

Edmund tensed against him. "It wasn't serious," he disagreed weakly. "I was fine."

"And so was I. And you knew I was alright. But did that make you worry any less?"

His brother was silent for a few moments, his body still. And then he trembled, finally looking up at Peter with large, wet eyes; just like melting chocolate. Edmund was biting at his bottom lip, tears slowly slipping down his cheeks and dripping off his chin, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead and falling into over his eyes. "No," he said miserably, a fresh wave of tears welling up.

Peter smiled tenderly, lifting a hand to touch Edmund's damp face. "Exactly. Edmund, anything that happens to you is of importance to me," he whispered firmly. "Never forget that."

His brother said nothing, his eyes shutting on the tears he tried to rein in, but Peter heard a faint sound choked in his throat that was close to a laugh.

Peter moved his hand from Edmund's back to stroke the dark hair in his eyes, and he pushed a strand back thoughtfully. "Do you remember what you said to me before I left?"

The younger king's eyes widened slightly, and he managed a weak smile even while more wetness crept down his face. Peter let himself slip back for a moment, remembering the day he had departed for the North, hugging Susan and assuring her everything would be fine, then turning to his moping, dark eyed little brother. He'd smiled, already beginning to miss him and feeling far too much affection to let Edmund start up another fight, and so he had quickly leaned in and held the back of the younger's neck, locking their gazes. "I will come back. I swear it. Have faith in me, brother," he had said only so that Edmund could hear.

Now, looking at the younger and seeing the same uncontained shock and longing on his face, Peter felt his grin widen.

Edmund looked down, hands knotting in Peter's shirt. "May…" he began, voice uneven, and he paused to regain himself. "May Aslan guide your steps and direct your blade. May he keep you from harm and guard you from death, grant you clarity, and present you with the courage your heart requires. And may…may by Aslan's good grace you return safely home. So—" he clearly tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccupped sob, as he looked back up, smiling through tears, "—so you had better bring your sorry carcass back to us."

With that, Peter gently pulled Edmund forward to him, and his brother complied with a soft sigh, his head resting against him and face buried where Peter's shoulder and neck met, one of his arms wrapping around Peter's lower back.

Hearing Edmund's blessing once again was amazing; or maybe it was just the memory of his brother unabashedly flying at him the day he had left with Lucy and the troops, arms locked around his neck and holding onto him with everything in him, Peter gripping him back with just as much strength.

His cheek against Edmund's hair, Peter smiled. "I kept my word, didn't I?"

Against him, Edmund nodded. "I knew you would," Then, to Peter's shocked amazement, his brother actually nuzzled into him, something that made him want to grin and cry at the same time; when had Edmund last been so affectionate? "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"I know I hardly ever tell you this," he said, more of a strangled laugh, "but I love you something fierce. And I'm glad you're home," Edmund admitted quietly, words honest and naked.

It took all the strength the blonde man had to keep the stinging burn in his eyes back, Peter's heart swelling almost painfully because it felt _so good_ to hear Edmund say that. He smiled gently, hands coming up to knot in his brother's hair and pull him nearer. "I'm glad I'm home, too."

Peter was quiet while he gave Edmund time to regain himself, and while it didn't take as long as it once would have, it left him with plenty of time to notice things about his brother. Edmund's hair, still thick and silky, was ragged, and dampened by fevered sweat. His body looked and felt thinner, still muscled but lacking the nutrition of a decent meal and proper rest, and his skin, now that he was pressed against Peter, was pyretic, heat soaking through his shirt and along his face and throat.

"You're going to catch a fever, brooding like you've been," Peter said, deliberately leaving out the fact that his crying spell probably had done little to help. He kept his hand in his brother's hair, unable to blame him for breaking down; he had a distinct feeling that he would have done the same, had their positions been reversed.

Edmund pulled back from his shoulder, sniffing profoundly, before wiping an arm under his nose in a clearly childlike gesture. Peter had to fight a grin. "I think I already have," he stated thickly, ruefully, his heavy lidded eyes narrowing. "Great."

"You have no one to blame but yourself," Peter said jokingly.

And instantly could have slapped himself. Wasn't _he _the cause of Edmund's grief? "Ed, I didn't mean it like that," he hastily added.

His brother gave a weak smirk, but his eyes were strangely gentle, as were his words. "I know. And don't worry," he said, smirk slipping into something bashful, just before he leaned against him and rested his head on Peter's shoulder once more. "I don't blame you. I'm the one who went and got himself shot. You were just trying to keep me safe, making me stay home." Peter felt his lashes tickle the exposed skin at his throat. "Sorry for all the trouble I put you through. Next time this happens—_if _this happens—it won't be like this. I know it won't."

Peter rolled his eyes fondly, understanding his brother completely; it _had _been the first battle he'd participated in without Edmund, after all, so it hadn't been easy for him either. "You have nothing to apologize for. But I get where you're coming from," he continued, arms tightening around his brother as he pulled him closer, "and I know what you mean." He brushed a single, quick kiss to the teenager's hair.

Edmund's reply came somewhat muffled against his traveling tunic. "You don't have to treat me like I'm a little kid. I _am _a king, after all," he said in reference to the show of intimacy, but Peter knew his words were empty; he had not tensed at the touch like he had some years ago, instead relaxing even further.

"You're right: you aren't a little kid anymore, and I forget that sometimes."

Edmund blinked up at him, clearly confused; by the way the younger was looking at him, eyes just barely tinted with the disappointment he did well at hiding, Peter had a pretty good idea that his brother hadn't been expecting this kind of response. The question was evident on his face.

Before he could ask it, though, Peter planted another kiss to his forehead, smiling as he lingered this time. "But you _are _my little brother, even if you're a king, and I'm going to treat you as such. If I recall, I said I would coddle you even when we're in our twenties. You still have another two years before you can really start complaining."

Edmund slowly smiled, tired features lifting, and he gave a quick laugh before gently knocking his head against Peter's. Still smiling, Peter watched his Just King, and his grin grew when he saw his brother try to fight off a yawn. "Maybe you should get some sleep," he prompted.

"'m not sleepy," Edmund muttered through the yawn, and Peter laughed as the younger man glared at him. But then his eyes softened, and before Peter had time to even wonder what had changed in him, Edmund lifted a hand to touch the dark, bruise like circles that were beneath Peter's own eyes. "You're exhausted," he accused. "Have you even been sleeping?"

"Excuse me, but I had better things to do. Like plan a battle, for instance."

"That's not a straight answer, Peter," his brother contended, clearly displeased. "It's not the wound, is it?"

A wry smile stretched Peter's mouth at the very familiar question, and he gave his brother the same answer as Lucy: "Not anymore."

Edmund's eyes, though red rimmed, became determined. "Let me see."

"What? No!"

"Yes."

"I think we've made it clear that we don't do well seeing each other's wounds," Peter stated, mind flashing back to the numerous time he had seen his brother's body riddled with lacerations or had watched him remove his shirt, only to reveal a chest and back tattooed by scars, some small and others large and more noticeable. One, in particular, Peter found very difficult to look at even now.

The younger king's eyes softened, clearly aware that Peter was thinking about the scar on his stomach where he had been stabbed eight years ago during their first major battle. "Just let me see it," he encouraged softly. "I promise, no freaking out."

Peter frowned, but slowly, reluctantly, pushed Edmund away so that he could stand, then extended a hand to his brother when he was on his feet. Once Edmund was standing as well, he slowly began pulling his tunic out from beneath his sword belt, raising it up and sliding his right arm out so that his bare side was exposed.

Edmund sucked in a breath, and when the elder looked in the mirror, he could see why. Long, pale, and still slightly raw, it was not a pretty sight, traveling down just past the top of his trousers and dangerously close to his ribs. It did not bother him to have it, or to see it; he was proud of the scars he bore, the wounds he'd received protecting his kingdom. He just was a bit worried about Edmund.

When Peter looked at him, his brother was blinking quickly, but his eyes had not filled with moisture. Hesitantly, Edmund lifted a hand, and long, slender fingers skimmed over the freshly healed wound, a bit too forceful in their assessment and causing Peter to fight a wince. His brother caught it, however, and gave him an apologetic look, lowering his hand.

"Well," he said, a bit breathlessly. "It…it's not exactly what I imagined."

Dropping his shirt, Peter grinned self consciously. "What, you thought I'd be all hacked up?"

Edmund frowned. "That would be the worst scenario."

"Ed—"

"It's alright. I just thank Aslan for giving you the sense to move before you were cut in half." He smiled, slightly pained, but sincere.

It was a nice surprise to see how well Edmund had handled that, even though Peter could see that his hands were shaking and his eyes seemed just a tad bit too bright. He felt pride well up in him at his brother's strength; Edmund had always been the better when it came to handling the battle scars they carried.

Peter sighed a moment later, breaking the silence that had grown between them. "I guess I should go get some sleep. I promised the girls I would."

"Might as well sleep here," Edmund said with a shrug, but even as he tried to sound nonchalant, Peter could see the hope in his eyes.

Peter smirked affectionately. "I was referring to here."

Edmund blushed, smiling sheepishly. "Well, only if you want to."

"I want to."

His brother tossed his head indifferently, but the relief and satisfaction were plainly written on his face.

"I'll just go clean up real quick."

"Don't worry with it." Edmund grabbed him by the wrist and began, to his mild surprise, tugging him toward the bed.

Peter dug his heals in and pulled back slightly, grinning. "I can't get in a bed like this." He motioned down at his dusty clothes.

Edmund cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, you are filthy."

"Now where have I heard that before?"

"My guess would be Susan."

Peter laughed, shaking his head. "Really. I'll get your bed all dirty."

Edmund had a firm hold on him again, eyes and smile amused, slightly possessive, and a bit timid. "Like I care. Just take you boots and sword off an lie down already. There's lots of sleep needing to be caught up on, and I intend to begin now."

Peter stood, watching as Edmund crawled into his bed and flopped down on the left side, the back of his hair spreading up and out over the white pillow. Throwing an arm up behind his head, he lifted his eyebrows and flashed a quick, expecting smirk.

Rolling his eyes, Peter complied under his brother's gaze and began to unfasten his cape, draping it over the wooden chest when he had it off, then sliding out of his dusty boots. The whole while, Edmund watched him, grin slipping in to a small, affectionate smile, his eyes alight with a luminous sparkle, and every now and then, Peter would flash a quick smile as well. He lifted the golden crown off of his head and placed it on his cape, then walked to the side of the bed, simultaneously unclasping his belt; he removed Rhindon from the band, choosing to place it against the wall well within arm's reach like he always did.

"Honestly, Ed," Peter began, gingerly crawling onto the bed as to not get it too grimy, "I get that you haven't been sleeping well, but you don't really need me right here to fall asleep, do you?" It wasn't really a serious question, mostly spoken just as banter, but Edmund looked over at him for a moment before turning his head away so that it was impossible to see his face. He moved his arm and gripped Peter's shirt sleeve, grasping his forearm, and deftly pulled it over his own back so that Peter's fingers were barely touching his abdomen, an action that sent a tingly bright current through Peter's entire weary frame.

"Is it so strange that I do?" Edmund asked unevenly.

Peter smiled affectionately, chuckling as he leaned in and pressed his forehead to the back of Edmund's shoulder, the arm over the younger boy's body wrapping around him. "Well, then, if I want you sleeping off that fever, I most definitely will stay. But it's mainly because I missed you."

The Just gave a weak chortle, twisting his fever flushed body so that his back was against Peter's chest. "Thanks for caring," he mumbled, only half sarcastic. "I'll be fine when I wake."

"I would hope so. You know just how much the girls like playing nursemaid."

This time, Edmund full out laughed, unrestrained and without any distress, and he grinned brightly over his shoulder at Peter; and Peter saw it, the flames burning in the brown eyes he knew even better than his own blue ones. "You're a fine one to talk, as you have an uncanny knack for hovering. Really, Peter, you're worse than a girl!"

Peter blinked. And then grinned, his own laughter as light hearted as Edmund's. "Lion's Mane, Ed, you're a wonder." Not in the least embarrassed, he gripped his brother securely and, as if to prove the point just stated, pressed a firm kiss to the back of Edmund's neck. He was rewarded with the breath in the younger's chest catching, his body reflexively going stiff and then immediately after loosening. "If I may be so blunt, little brother, that's a bit much coming from you when _you _yourself are just as protective," he growled affectionately.

Although he couldn't see his face, Peter knew Edmund was smiling. "Your Highness is becoming incoherent from lack of proper sleep. How about you close your mouth and shut your eyes and see where that gets you, hmm?"

Peter, who was, in fact, beginning to realize just how tired and he was and knowing sleep would come quick and easy, merely laughed and pushed his head to the back of Edmund's, gladly obeying his brother's command. He had a very good feeling that they both would soon be sound asleep, the younger man's heated skin burning into him, a peace settling over him at knowing he had the other half of his heart in his arms. Against him, Edmund sighed contently.

Peter wouldn't have minded just talking with his brother a bit longer, but he fell asleep before the thought even crossed his mind.

* * *

The smooth, gliding of wood scraping against wood woke Peter only somewhat, and when he lifted his head enough to blink blearily in the direction of the door, he saw Lucy coming toward them, a guilty little smile on her face, her eyes filled with a loving glow. He smiled sleepily, welcoming her forward.

She climbed up beside Edmund, who, as if able to sense a warm, familiar body in his sleep, reached out one of his arms for her, the other moving to wrap round Peter's. Her arms twining around the youngest king's waist, one of her hands seeking Peter's, and he took hold of it so that his was cradled between both their hands, Lucy's on bottom and Edmund's on top.

Once again, sweet slumber took him far away to where he could have sworn he heard a lion laugh proudly.

* * *

Susan, outside of her younger brother's room, hated to disturb him, especially if he and Peter hadn't yet made up; she knew it wouldn't have taken them this long, however, and hesitantly opened the door.

The Gentle Queen smiled at her three siblings, all dead to their surroundings. Lucy's head rested against Edmund's collarbone, her slender arms around him tightly, and behind him was Peter, his very position radiating protector; the curve of his body, the way he held onto their brother even in sleep. Edmund's head was curled over the youngest queen's, his back pressed against Peter, one arm holding tight to him.

Although she knew that Peter, as High King, should have been reading through the most recent requests and documents, she hadn't the heart to wake any of them, and, deciding to shrug her own duties for a change, walked quietly to the divan and leaned back, content with watching her brothers' and sister's chest rise and fall with the deep, even breaths of sleep.


	2. Edmund

**********Disclaimer********: I do not own anything in the world of Narnia****; everything belongs to C. S. Lewis.**

**A/N:** **You know, I had never thought about writing this story from Edmund's point of view; it came about because of a question I received in one if my reviews. And, to my surprise, I actually wrote and edited this in less than a week, which is kind of amazing for me since I didn't publish the actual story from Peter's point of view until a few mont****hs after I had finished it. ****I'm glad I chose to do this, as it gave me a chance to clarify a few things that I was unable to in the previous chapter, plus you get to see inside Edmund's head during an extremely angst-filled moment. A big thanks to everyone who has already reviewed, and maybe you'll feel inclined to leave another comment!**

**Also, for anyone who doesn't know the term Omaru, it is the name of Aslan's Camp in the film version of LLW.  
**

**StarKatt427**

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**For AlwaysABrandNewDay, who asked for Edmund's take on this story and was the main reason I found inspiration to write this; I hope it's everything you hoped for.**

* * *

_"Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you."_

Ephesians 4:31-32

* * *

Although Susan never suspected it, Edmund had sensed her every time she thought he wasn't aware and chose to check on him. His oldest sister was funny that way, always just the slightest bit too obvious; or maybe is was the other way around and she tried to pretend indifference so well that he was able to tell when her gaze locked on him as she watched for any sign of distress. She'd had good reason to these last several weeks, he would give her that, and he understood that she was just being the amazing, caring woman she was, but it would have been nice if she'd stop slipping into his room every so often.

It didn't matter, anyway: usually, she found him the way he was when she left because he rarely moved and didn't feel much need to. He sat with his back to the wall, his body weary and jittery and feverish almost, like there was a low blaze within him that could not be extinguished. Without looking at them, he knew his hands were pale, too white to be normal, yet he was flushed, sweat lightly coating his chest and back and neck and above his upper lip. His head resting against the wall, long, messy bangs falling into his eyes, he stared absently out the window at a distant flat of land he knew well; after all, he had watched it enough the last two days. But as there was nothing to see coming over the hill at the moment, he let his thoughts wander some, just not enough to get lost in the memories.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. One million, two hundred nine thousand, six hundred seconds. In reality, it wasn't a long span of time, barely a wrinkle in the universe, yet these last two weeks had been pure torture for Edmund and had lasted what seemed like a lifetime, and he felt as if he should be an old man now, gray of hair and short in stature. But he wasn't; he was the same eighteen-year-old he had been when the small band of soldiers had left for the North.

When word had been brought the afternoon before last that they would be returning…that Lucy would be returning…that _Peter _would be…Edmund had gone into a state of mild shock for a short while, too flabbergasted to put any coherent thoughts together or get any words out. It had been a small she-Hare that had informed him and Susan as they were just sitting down to tea, and he'd seen his sister's face light up with relief and excitement, though he, at the time, hadn't felt anything of the sort: to know that they were actually coming home after eleven days and would be back in three was almost too much for him to grasp. But then the shock had trickled away and he, faintly aware that Susan had asked him how grand the news was, had managed what he'd thought to be a smile and had replied, "Very," is a sort of voice that wasn't anything like him: quiet, dulled and foreign.

Edmund remembered sitting in silence that night once he'd excused himself and returned to his chambers, leaving Susan behind troubled and upset, her happy mood clearly dampened by his behavior; and though he had known what he'd been putting her through—what he still was—he was unable to plug up the aching whole in his chest that caused it. He'd been too focused on the tumult running through him: anticipation and gratefulness and pain and anger and longing and fear all mixed into one large cancerous mass that had planted its roots deep within his belly and refused even now to be deracinated. He had been brooding over the past two weeks, but these last three days of waiting had been almost as bad as the two before them.

He shut his gluey eyes and exhaled deeply as he remembered the day he'd found out Peter had been wounded.

* * *

_Edmund was just coming in from a long, time consuming walk through the gardens and orchards (which had taken up less time than he had hoped) when Susan slid in step beside him, a slight smile on her face that he knew meant she wanted something of him. Though he did not know to which degree, he found himself smiling back, the same turn of the lips he'd been giving her for many days, unable to deny his curiosity. _

"_Do you know something?" asked Susan, passing by two courtiers as she followed him into the Cair. _

"_What?" he inquired, because he was supposed to._

"_I would like for you to teach me how to play chess."_

_Although he could not forget the dark cloud that had hovered over him since Peter's departure, he managed to laugh. "I've tried to before, remember? You were horrible."_

"_Yes, but that was a long time ago," she said, slipping her arm through his. "And I would much like for you to show me the plays and teach me the rules again."_

_He paused, turning to face her. "Why the sudden interest now?"_

_She lifted her hand and tapped a slender finger to her chin dramatically as she pretended to contemplate this. "Well, why not now? There's no time like the present. Isn't that what you usually say?"_

_Edmund knew exactly what she was trying to do, though she hid it well, and he could not help but smile sincerely at the sister who was doing all she could to distract him from missing Peter, although it most likely wouldn't work as well as she'd hope it to. Even if it meant pretending to be interested in a game she had no real desire to play and little talent at (though diplomatic, his sister had yet to fully master the art of strategy even after eight years), she would be willing to use it as an excuse to get him to stay with her for a while._

_So he nodded. "True. Alright then." He motioned down the hall to where the main library was, where the golden chess set resided that he sat over so often with— _

_No. Not right now, He wouldn't spoil this for her._

"_Shall we begin?" he asked._

_Edmund saw a subtle change in her features: a widening of her eyes, clearly surprise, her lips parting just slightly before she smiled brightly and allowed him to lead her to the library._

_Once they were actually playing, Edmund had to admit that she had gotten better; she studied her options more carefully and chose which pieces to move with a great deal more skill, though he saw many openings with which to beat her. But she seemed to honestly be enjoying it, and they spoke lightly off an on of unimportant matters like the weather and, though he was not exactly interested, he even asked about a recent gown she had received as a present from one of her many suitors, a baron from Galma. It was casual talk, nothing so serious that would pull him into some foul mood, and he was thankful for the distraction that did, to his surprise, help keep his mind focused on something besides the longing._

_He had just captured her bishop when the large doors flew open behind them and a Badger burst through, panting slightly and supporting his weight against one of the doors. It was surprising to Edmund when the animal did not bow, as he was now accustomed to the light dip always made upon anyone first entering and exiting from his or any of his sibling's presence, but he did not think over it too much. Instead, all he noticed was the Badger looking from him to Susan with unusually large eyes, and knew something had happened._

"_What ails you so, good Badger?" Susan asked with concern; clearly her thoughts were along the same track as his._

"_Your Majesties," said the Badger, lifting himself up in a more dignified manner, "you must come at once. A Dryad has brought word from the North and says it urgent."_

_Edmund felt Susan's eyes go instinctively to him, fear radiating through her gaze, but he did not know to what extent because he was on his feet just as the Badger finished speaking, walking out to go behind the short animal, not quite running but nearing it. He heard Susan follow just behind, her skirts swishing over the floors, until her hand reached out and touched his briefly; he wasn't sure if she was trying to give him reassurance or seeking comfort herself, so he gave her hand a quick squeeze and continued on, throat tight and heart pounding, dread thick on his tongue._

_He strode behind the stocky animal, past tapestries and armors and down the long hall, taking a left and heading to the set of glass doors that were to the left of Lucy's large herb garden. The doors stood open, a cool breeze flowing up the passage, and standing—or rather, floating—just outside was the figure of a woman, her every feature consisting of the green leaves and yellow catkins from the tree she was spirit of._

_As the Badger stepped away for them, Edmund stood before the Dryad and tried to calm himself. "What news bring you?"_

"_Word from you sister, Her Majesty Queen Lucy, concerning the northern confrontation," the Silver Birch Dryad began in a soft, airy voice that still managed to convey the seriousness of the news she bore. "She says you brother, His Majesty the High King Peter, has been wounded."_

_At his side, Susan gasped, hands flying up to her mouth._

_Everything stopped for Edmund: the entire world, time, his very heart and breath and the blood pounding through his veins. All he could hear was the words of the Hamadryad repeating in his head. _Your brother…has been wounded…the High King…Peter…has been wounded…wounded.

_And then his breath came back in a gasped rush, painful and difficult like a hot brand pressed to his lungs, and it felt like his heart was trying to rip out of his body, like his very soul was trying to tear free. He shook once, twice, until it felt as if his entire frame was vibrating, and he couldn't think straight._

_The Silvan spoke again, but her words were distant and too fuzzy for him to understand clearly. "Her Majesty told me to inform you that he is faring quite well, though the blade was mightily sharp and the wound caused him to lose much blood, and he was fully restored after she gave him a drop of the healing cordial that is her gift. She says he is in no danger and that your fears should be put at rest, my King and Queen."_

"_Thank Aslan," Susan exhaled, hands over her heart. "Does our sister send any other news?"_

"_Yes, my Lady. She says the battle is going well and that is should soon be ended. She also asks for you to not worry, Your Majesties."_

"_Thank you, good spirit."_

_With the slightest of bows, the Wood Nymph began to vanish before them, her figure dispersing into green and yellow swirls of plant life until she was nothing more than leaves and blossoms in the wind._

_And Edmund was left staring at the space she had just occupied, unable to move._

_Though he didn't notice, Susan turned to him, a hand touching his arm. "What a relief," _

_she said shakily. "I'm glad Lucy had the sense to bring—Ed?"_

_He heard her, though he did not understand her words or why she had paused, speaking his name so cautiously. He had heard everything the Dryad had spoken, though he could not accept it. Everything inside him, where it had been dulled and dreary since the troops had set out, was suddenly alight with fire and desperation and burning fear, and he could see nothing but the strong, oddly pale face of his older brother laid out across a battlefield, his armor ripped and blood gushing from his body, soaking his hair and flecking his beard. All he could see was Peter dying._

_Something broke inside him._

_Edmund was running before he had time to think, away from Susan and the Cair, toward where the stables were, where he knew Phillip to be. He wasn't thinking straight; he knew that much. But he could not stop his body and didn't even try as he flew over the grounds, barely hearing his sister's high, frightened voice calling behind him. He nearly tripped several times and had to catch himself against a tree once, but he never stopped._

_He burst through the stable that housed Phillip, ignoring the horses when they pricked up at the sight of him, and moved to where his horse's stall was._

_The Chestnut cocked his head, black eyes inquisitive and concerned. "Your Majesty?"_

_Edmund didn't answer, barely even looking at him as he grabbed his saddle and flung it over his shoulder, then unlocked Phillip's stall door, mind separated from his body and in a colder place._

_The horse walked calmly, which frustrated him; why wasn't he moving fast enough? Once Phillip was out, Edmund threw the saddle over him and positioned it, then reached for the reigns and halter and bit. Moving with an ease brought about by years of practice, he expertly fastened every buckle and snap, tacking up._

_He wasn't going fast enough. He had to move. _

"_What's wrong? Edmund?" Phillip called him by his given name, forgoing all titles as he tried to draw his attention, but Edmund once again did not acknowledge him as he led the horse by the reigns out of the stable._

_Edmund had one foot in the stirrup and was just about to throw his leg over Phillip's side when a hand grabbed him by the back of his tunic and pulled viciously at him, catching him off guard and making him slip sideways, but he was just able to catch himself before he fell._

"_What do you think you're __**doing**__?" came Susan's furious exclamation as she reached up and latched her other hand onto him, somehow managing to, once again, pull him off balance. He struggled against her, easily freeing himself and sitting up straight in the saddle._

"_Edmund, this is madness! Stop it!"_

"_Your Majesty, maybe you should—" _

"_Quiet," he commanded the horse, voice surprisingly cold and calm; it wasn't anything like he felt. He was scorching and writhing, heart screaming and reaching for Peter, to get to him and kill whichever Giant had dared touch him. He had to get to him to make sure he was still alive. He had to— _

_Before he could flick the reigns, Susan reached up and grabbed them, and with her other hand clutched his arm, digging her fingernails into the skin beneath his sleeve. "Listen to me," she pleaded, holding fast to the reigns even as he tried to jerk them from her. "Brother, you can't just rush off like this. There's nothing you could do, you're just going to get yourself killed."_

_He finally looked her full in the face, at her wide, begging blue eyes and full lips, watching as she panted from running. And all he could see was the traces of Peter in her features._

_He pulled his arm away, then yanked at the reigns, which she refused to release. "Let go. Now."_

_Edmund knew his iciness could frighten most; he often used it when it came to diplomats and disputes. But Susan did not even flinch, merely looked all the more determined._

"_If you go, do you truly believe you would be of any good now? The battle is nearly won, Peter is fine, and you storming in would do nothing but cause him worry." She did not say it harshly, merely stating the honest fact that when it came to each other, her brothers were hopelessly protective and sometimes felt far too deeply for their own good._

_But to Edmund, her words cut deeper than any knife, and they sliced his soul. She was right; she almost always was. He knew there was nothing he could really do there, but that changed nothing. Every pretense of calm fled him as he looked back at her, something wild finally breaking through._

"_He's my __**brother**__!" he screamed. "I can't just sit here while he's risking his life! It's my fault he got wounded!"_

_She tugged him so that he was just above her and held him fast, eyes intense. "And he's my brother too! How do you think I feel right now, how I always feel when one of you is wounded? All I can do is wait here for your return and pray that you'll come home whole." Susan sighed, all fire leaving her, and then she looked very vulnerable, not anything like the gentle queen she was; she looked like a child again. "I know that the bond I share with him is nothing in comparison to what you to feel for each other or how deeply that love runs. But he means so much to me, and I _do _know what you are feeling, though I don't completely understand it. So please…please come back. I don't want to take the chance of you getting hurt as well."_

_He was wavering, and he looked out to where he knew would lead to Peter. "But…but he…he's hurt, Su."_

_A quivering laugh, following by her standing on tip toes and touching his cheek, pulling his face to look at her, and she cradled his face in both of her hands. "You didn't hear a word the Dryad said, did you? Peter is truly alright. Lucy gave him the cordial."_

_Edmund kept his eyes locked with her calming gaze, afraid he would splinter into a thousand pieces, his control beginning to shatter. "All the blood…" The vivid image of Peter on the ground, bleeding out, made him shudder._

"_He lost a lot, but he's alright. Edmund, he's safe and he's alive, and when the battle is over, he and Lucy _will _return to us."_

_For a moment, he couldn't do anything but stare at her, body tense and on edge, breaths ragged and blood pounding in his ears. Then slowly, excruciatingly, everything slackened: his breathing became calmer, though it still shook, and he felt his shoulders relax, swallowing down the heart that had jumped into his throat, adrenaline still fast in his system. He felt tired, and old, and terrified, but it was no longer the overpowering fear it had been just seconds ago that nearly had him rushing off into the frosty North with no provisions or plan. Susan's logic had probably just saved him from any nasty demise._

"_Will you please come back inside with me?" she inquired softly, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone._

_He nodded, feeling strangely hollow, and allowed her to help him dismount. Beside him, Phillip bumped his nose into his side gently, and Edmund placed a hand on the horse, burying his fingers in his mane apologetically. When he let out a soft, low neigh that Edmund understood to be a chuckle, he knew that he was forgiven._

_Absently, he sensed that he needed to take Phillip back to his stall, but he couldn't make himself. Instead, Susan called in that gentle way of hers to a Satyr that had been trimming the roses and trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation, and once the timid, slightly nervous creature stood before her, she told him to put away Phillip and his gear, adding a polite "please" before even beginning._

_Edmund didn't fight when she slid her arm behind his back, hand soothing against his spine, and he looked at her blankly when he found her watching him. "Are you going to be alright?" she asked anxiously._

_Though he did not express is (he felt too empty to even try), he felt a little better knowing he still had his gentle queen, and though he knew he wouldn't be well until he saw Peter home, safe and alive, he nodded to keep her from worrying, aware of the fact that he needed to get back inside before he really did break._

_Susan gave a brief smile, then pulled him down enough so that she could kiss the side of his head before wrapping her arm around his waist and leading him back to the castle._

* * *

The two days following had been horrible; beyond horrible, though he wasn't sure what word he could use to describe the gaping, consuming fissure they had been. He'd barely been able to eat and had become dehydrated more than once when he refused to drink, only doing so when Susan came to his room and nearly forced him to. His sleep, already restless, had turned into short intervals of nothing but visions of blood and metal, of his brother battling without him, and he would wake up just before Peter received the deathblow from a Giant's razor-edged sword. Even now, he was too terrified to willingly fall asleep and only got the rest his body was starved of when his head was too heavy to hold up or when keeping his lids lifted became too great a challenge and his eyes would finally shut.

When he'd been told his siblings and the rest of the Narnians would be back in two day's time, things had changed. Sleep, though not quite as fitful, had not come easily, and he still hadn't had a decent night's rest. He'd begun to eat more, mostly for Susan; he still didn't have an appetite, but he also knew his body would weaken if he did not get enough nutrition. He was no longer in the fog he had been in since the night Susan had brought him up to his chambers, his mind clear enough to focus on something for a long period of time now, and even this sharpness was better than the empty deadness he had been victim to. But this also meant he felt more profoundly, his emotions stronger, and that was why he was so confused right now.

Anticipation was strong, as he could hardly wait for the moment when he would see Peter and Lucy and the others top the hill and begin to draw closer to Cair Paravel. Any length of separation from any of his siblings was always painful, but this had by far been the worst; he was thankful that they didn't have to be away any longer and that they would finally be home. Fear was a bit more difficult for him to decipher, though he had a feeling it had something to do with Peter; he wasn't afraid of his brother, but he knew there would be a confrontation between them, and he was nervous about how it would turn out. The pain and anger were obvious to him, both born from the same two factors: one being he had been forbidden to go with the group to the North to do battle with the Ettins, his blasted shoulder having worried Peter too much for him to even consider allowing him to come along, and the other that it had been because of this decision that his brother had been wounded in the first place. His injured shoulder had been healed quickly, though he hated to admit that the tenderness in it had lingered most likely due to the fact that it had been so long before he'd gotten back home and Lucy had healed it with her cordial. Edmund knew that even with this mild lack of balance, he would have been fine in battle, but Peter, the great annoyance, hadn't thought so; he'd insisted on him staying behind with Susan, and when Edmund and him had argued the afternoon before he had left, Peter had, for the first time in their life, forbade him from coming, from doing anything. He had seen the pain and the slowly breaking firmness in his brother's eyes, but then Peter had given him an order, one that Edmund could not deny no matter how greatly he wanted to: his brother was High King, and no matter what, Edmund would follow his command.

It was because of this, however, that Edmund had not been in his customary place near Peter in battle, hadn't been there to keep the danger away from him, and that was even worse than not being allowed to go, burning through Edmund with the fire of the hot brand.

And yet, even though the anger and pain were so strong that it was amazing to him that he managed to keep his calm even now, the pure longing he felt for both of his siblings was ever greater. Lucy was the baby, so he had a special place set aside for her in his heart, just like he knew it was with his older siblings; it was a love that was defensive and fond, sweet and warm and sparkling, just like the Eastern Sea that she had been given. She was the one who could get him to smiling when not even Peter could, who still liked to just come up at the most random of moments and wrap her arms around him in a hug, just like that first time at Omaru so long ago. And then there was Peter, the one person he had long ago tried to hate and had just a few days ago been ready to risk his own life to get to. He relationship with Peter was sometimes complicated, the first year of their reign having been awkward when either tried to show the depth of their emotions, but it had steadily become as easy as breathing; walking into a hug or accepting the kisses his brother, even now, decided to bestow were natural. That wasn't to say that they did not argue; the night before Peter had left was a fine example. But they always managed to pull through and were the stronger for it. Peter was his brother, his only brother, and so what he felt for him was especially rare, a strength born from blood and sweat and tears, from shared smiles and hours of sparring practice, chess matches and voyages to different lands, from quavers and nightmares and from an affection that Edmund shared not even with Lucy. They had endured capture together, had often been each other's sanity when battle and death became too much or when nightmares were especially vicious, and that was why Edmund felt Peter's absence so greatly.

Still, that was not going to excuse Peter from the verbal lashing Edmund had been mulling over. Weeks worth of anger had been bottled up for too long, and he knew that it would be difficult for him to keep them contained once Peter was before him.

Edmund did not move from his perch by the window for the next hour, not even when he saw something flash over the hill, then vanish. It reappeared, disappeared, and then entered into perfect view: a scarlet flag, the golden image of the Lion its rampant. Chest suddenly tight, he watched as another flag came up over the land, followed by three figures in between them. To the left was a smaller person riding horseback, their long hair blowing and skirts catching the wind: Lucy. To the right was a tall, solemn Centaur with a deep chest and a glossy black horse half that was Oreius. And in between them, where Edmund found his eyes locked, was a tall, broad shouldered man wearing a crimson mantle, the golden crown on his head just barely catching the sunlight.

Peter.

Something came alive in his chest, and Edmund felt like laughing and crying and screaming all at once, but all he allowed himself was a slight smile.

Minutes later, he heard the door open and knew it was Susan. He heard her take a deep breath, like she was about to spout out excitedly, but then her breathing hitched. She sighed. "You saw," she stated.

"Yes."

He waited to see if she would ask if he would come out with her to meet them. Susan, already knowing what his answer would be, however, simply closed the door and left him alone.

And Edmund waited for the brother he knew would soon come looking for him.

* * *

It wasn't a long wait, though it felt dreadfully stretched out to Edmund, and as the minutes passed he began to feel more unhinged, eventually pulling his knees up close to his chest and draping his arms over them. Though he was chafing inside, he managed to keep himself calm for the most part, though it was more lethargy than anything due to the sheer exhaustion. The whole while he was hoping he would be able to remain calm once Peter entered but knew the chances were slight; he just had to stay as neutral as possible so that he didn't break under the strain. If he showed or said too much, that would fracture his composure.

Less than two minutes later, he heard the faint scraping of the door, then the sound of riding boots against the floor, and Peter was in the room.

It took every ounce of Edmund's will power to not look at the older man, but he was able to push this down, instead keeping his eyes out the window, gaze focused on the distant forests ahead and the beaches of the ocean to the left. Though he was making himself concentrate on the view before him, his other senses were heightened by the presence of his brother: he heard every move Peter made, every scuff of his boots, every tap of Rhindon against his leg, every breath that he breathed out. He could almost feel Peter, though they were separated by an entire room, the tiredness and travel grime and victory and even, strangely enough, surprise on him.

Then Peter was coming forward, slow and deliberate, until he stopped, close but at the same time distant. Now that Peter was nearer, Edmund was met by his brother's reflection in the glass: even in the window, Peter had sleep circles under his eyes, hair and clothes covered with dust and his shoulders drooped, but Edmund found no wound. The fatigue radiating off of him was tangible, and Edmund had to fight a wry smile. "You look terrible."

He watched Peter's reflection jump, eyes slightly confused and a bit stunned. "Edmund?"

"I can see your reflection," he clarified. "And, if this is an accurate image of you, I can see that you also seem nervous." It wasn't just Peter's reflection though: it was the sense of uncertainty his body radiated that had tipped him off.

Edmund saw Peter's jaw tighten, but he remained silent, causing Edmund to grow a bit worried, though he didn't show it. "What? Has something bad happened?"

Peter's reflection, watching him, scowled slightly. "No. Everything's fine."

"Oh."

"Oh?" repeated Peter incredulously.

"Oh," he reiterated calmly.

Peter's eyebrows furrowed, an expression Edmund knew well to be annoyance, but he spoke up before his brother would have time to think of something to say. "Did you win?"

He asked this question knowing that there was a good chance it would get under Peter's skin; in some ways, it referred to the army itself while, at the same time, to Peter as a single person. Though he shouldn't have, Edmund felt a little spiteful, mostly due to the pain he suffered at being forced to remain at the Cair while Peter and the others risked their lives. But it seemed Aslan was against him: his voice broke slightly on the syllable "you".

Across the space, Peter breathed deeply. "Yes, we did," he said, adding emphasis to the plural.

Edmund clenched his jaw and gave a jerky nod. "Alright."

A silence arose between them, one that was especially uncomfortable for Edmund. So after just a few moment of this, he lowered his gaze to his bitten down fingernails and swallowed. "How's Lucy?"

When Peter answered, Edmund could hear the pride in his voice. "Amazing. You should have seen her." He paused ever so slightly. "She was incredible."

And Edmund did not doubt it; Lucy was, after all, Narnia's first warrior queen, even though she was only sixteen, and she took every chance she got to aid her brothers in battle. She was skilled with blades in a way that Susan was not, his eldest sister remaining faithful to her ash wood bow. Lucy was capable with many weapons, though she did best with her dagger, and Edmund could just see his sister battling against an Ettin. And though he fought against it, the image caused him a deal of sickening envy, for she had been where he had been forbidden to follow. Still, he felt proud more than jealous and longed to see her in combat, and he managed to attempt a smile. "I bet she was."

After a brief quiet, Peter spoke. "Maybe you'll get to see her next time."

Though Edmund knew his brother had not intended to, the words hurt, even though Peter was obviously trying to make amends. He glared for a moment at the back of his hands, then lifted his eyes to the desk across from him, at the crumpled, ink stained pieces of parchment that covered the floor and desk top: letters he had tried to write Peter late into that first night when he'd heard of his injury, none of them having made sense, all too jumbled with emotions and words that were not coherent. Slowly, he looked away from the scribbled out letters and turned his eyes upward to Peter.

And made the biggest mistake he could have.

Up until then, he had been mostly fine; he was handling his emotions well and holding everything in place and keeping his self-control. But when his eyes locked on his brother's face, it was all he could do to keep himself from screaming or crying out, everything inside him reaching for Peter. It was a miracle that he managed to keep his expression bare; maybe Aslan was aiding him, after all.

Because when he saw Peter—_really _saw him, not just his reflection—all the ache and resentment and yearning resurfaced as he took in Peter's tan face, not pale from blood loss as in his dreams. He watched the older man's eyes go wide with some sense of horror, eyes that were the bluest of blue and always managed to tear away Edmund's barriers. And it was so good to see that face again, even now with such a hurt, shocked expression, that something sung out inside Edmund, trying to break past his wall of indifference and almost managing to; he had to force it down while not revealing the emotions waging war inside his body.

It wasn't until now, with Peter standing just feet away from him, that Edmund became aware of just how greatly he had missed his High King; now, it was raw and nervous and oh so sweet and awkward, similar to how it had been the day he'd been saved from the Witch and brought to his siblings and Aslan, after he had hugged his sisters and was left staring up at Peter, the feelings coursing though him unknown and extreme, a love so great that he hadn't been able to even slightly understand it at the time.

Edmund watched as his lips parted on a cut off breath, something like fear seeping into his eyes, and he was unable to push down the smile that came to him, somehow allowing him to vent just the smallest bit of anger. "I may just hold you to that."

Peter's mouth closed, and Edmund could see one of his brother's hands twitch, gaze so openly forthright that Edmund knew Peter was fighting against the urge to reach out to him, and the feeling that came to him was odd, infuriated that his brother would even think to try it and thankful to know that he still would. He stared up into the familiar features with as much blankness as he could, though he couldn't quite swallow down the burning, oncoming rage, and he knew that he would have to try harder to contain it. The question was, could he?

Something swirled into the pale blue of Peter's eyes, a knowledge that only his brother would sense, as if he could see just what Edmund was doing and did not like it at all. There wasn't even any anger, which Edmund would have done better with, instead a hunger and aching fear that he understood because he had experienced it as well.

The Just saw Peter swallow. "Edmund…"

"What's wrong? You look ill."

His brother's brows furrowed, then lifted. "Edmund…" He sounded like he was trying not to choke. "…you…"

Edmund grinned, letting the rage slide through some, though there was a part of him that disapproved acting like the hurtful little boy he had once been. "When you were wounded, did you hit your head? That would explain your lack of articulacy."

"Ed, stop…" Peter whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Then again," he continued, unable to control the words flying out of his mouth, "the Dryad said it was a sword wound. Strange, isn't it? Ettins usually go for clubs, but they'll sometimes use a jagged blade." His voice didn't sound right, too wicked, too pain filled and hollow at the same time, and far away from the moral king he knew he was. He tried to grin again, but it felt like a scowl. "It must have been especially nasty. Are you still recovering?"

"Please…" came Peter's soft, shaky voice, as close to pleading as he had ever heard it, his eyes anguished and searching.

Edmund finally lost the battle to keep the fury out of his words. "What's the matter, brother?"

"_Shut up, Edmund!"_

The command came out of nowhere, thunderous and powerful and fitting the High King that had yelled it, and it left Edmund reeling. His brother hardly ever lost his cool and he hadn't expected this; but Peter's temper had proved to be in a more fragile state than he had given it credit for, and so he was left gaping up into the livid, slightly frightening face of Narnia's highest monarch, his eyes harder than and twice as cold as ice.

With a half growl, Peter suddenly rushed him and, too surprised to comprehend what was going on, Edmund found himself being gripped by two strong hands, Peter jerking him in a quick shake so that his head flew back. He blinked up, some of the shock wearing off and being replaced by his previous fierceness.

"You…what is _wrong _with you?" the elder roared, expression baffled and distressed and more than a bit outraged. "Do you have any idea how much you're hurting us, or do you even care?"

Edmund's thoughts flashed to his sisters instinctively, mainly to a certain older sister who had been putting up with his moods for weeks now, and his eyebrows drew down. "Of course I care."

Peter exhaled a sarcastic breath. "Really? Because I'm starting to wonder if you truly do. Or are you just being a bother on purpose?" His gaze intensified, filling with what appeared to be grief, and it was all Edmund could do to continue looking at him. "You seem like you could care less about anything, but that's a lie, and you and I both know it."

He was losing the composure he had achieved, the cool façade slipping right through his fingers, and he finally let himself glare full on into the older king's eyes. "I do care, if you can actually believe it," he replied, flames licking at his words.

Peter, usually so calm and patient, grabbed the front of his thin shirt and pulled him forward so that their foreheads were nearly touching. "Then why are you trying to act like nothing matters? I _know _you, Edmund, and I _know _when you're hiding something. Don't you understand? It's not going to do any good! All you're doing is putting us through pain. Aslan, Ed, do you even see what you're putting _me _through?"

The last bit of Edmund's equanimity crumbled at his brother's latest statement, and he lifted his hands up and shoved them to Peter's chest with a force backed by anger so that he nearly knocked him backwards. Was Peter really that clueless? Did he honestly not understand _why _he was doing this? "Of course I do!" he yelled, making it to his feet in one fluid movement so that he was just a few inches below Peter. "I know good and well what I'm doing, but I can't help it, alright?"

He watched Peter, daring him to scream back, to do something besides stare at him with such outright astonishment, all traces of irritation now gone, as he tried to force words from his mouth. "Ed…I don't understand."

Edmund rolled his eyes and snorted out a laugh, then pushed Peter again and made him take several steps back. "Of course you don't. You aren't supposed to."

"Why not? You aren't even making sense."

_He really doesn't get it_, Edmund realized, something like disbelief and agony swelling up inside him. His own brother, for once, did not understand the pain and anguish he felt, the loneliness and alienation, the desperation he'd experienced when he'd heard Peter had been injured. "That's the point!" He shoved Peter a third time, though there wasn't much strength behind it; his body was too worn out. "It wouldn't make sense to you, not to anyone but me." Edmund lifted a hand and grabbed at his hair distressedly. "God, Peter, I _hate _this!"

Behind the hand he had fisted in his hair, he saw that Peter was genuinely lost, so baffled that it physically hurt Edmund to know his brother couldn't see what was so obvious to himself. Once more, hands twitched out as if to grab him. "Hate what? Please just tell me. Look, I know…I know you're upset, but—"

Edmund was proud of the coolness he usually upheld. Under the direst circumstances, he was the one out of the two kings that usually managed to remain unruffled, who didn't lose his head. But here, now, with Peter on the other end asking such oblivious questions, Edmund's temper snapped more so than it ever had with his brother and, without even looking to see what he turned to grab, Edmund lifted the chair that he had sat in so often trying to write those blasted letters to Peter and threw it straight at said brother. It would have hit him in the stomach had he not moved out of the way at the last possible second, his face as taken aback as Edmund felt at the action; clearly, he wasn't the only one surprised by his lack on patience.

"No, Peter, I am beyond upset! I am furious!"

Peter's mouth hung open, eyes going wider than they had since he'd first entered the room. A question written across his face, he took hesitant steps nearer, a hand raised to touch him. "Edmund?"

Something bubbled up in his belly, and Edmund recoiled at the extended appendage, glaring at his brother with all the ire he felt in his body; he couldn't handle being touched so intimately now, not when he was steadily losing himself, and he would not let Peter any closer. He couldn't handle it. "_Do not_ touch me."

Edmund watched as his brother actually flinched, as if he had slapped him, and the pain that swam into those vivid blue eyes of his nearly did him in. His breathing tremulous, Peter lowered his hand. "_Why_, Ed?" he asked, this time, to the younger's amazement, actually begging. "Please, _please_, just tell me what I've done."

His brother could be a right idiot sometimes, and Peter's unawareness enraged Edmund all the more. Knowing there was nothing else within reach that was light enough to chuck at him, he had to settle for the next best thing, and that was screaming in a voice that was far too broken and not nearly enough infuriated, in his opinion. "_You made me stay behind!_ _You_, Peter, who knows just how important every battle is, forced me to stay behind like some invalid, while you went and risked your life." He had to swallow down the emotion working into his voice, trying to worm its way in as a sobbed breath. "That's not the way we work, and _you know it_!"

Peter was speechless, Edmund could see that as he stood panting for breath, and he saw the comprehension finally crawl into his eyes; it had always been there though, just masked so well that he hadn't been able to see it. "Edmund, be reasonable," the High King started.

Lord, was he _really _trying to use logic? What a laugh.

"Now come on, this is—"

"Silly? Childish?" Edmund suggested, giving a weak, cold laugh. "You know something? I don't even care any more if I _am _being childish!"

Peter took several deep breaths, and something about his eyes said he knew Edmund didn't mean the last part, but he said nothing about it. It was better that way; Edmund didn't know what he was capable of at the moment. "You know why I couldn't allow you to come," he finally murmured.

"That doesn't matter, Peter!" He cringed, horrified at the way his voice sounded, so high and shaky. "In eight years, this was the first time you openly forbad me from going into battle with you, where I am supposed to be. It's my duty to protect your back and make sure nothing touches you! But you wouldn't let me come. You even let _Lucy _go!"

"She needed the battle experience," his brother tried to rationalize.

"Not against Giants, and especially Ettins! She's still too young to be partaking in a fight that serious." He exhaled unsteadily, trying to gain his bearings and barely succeeding, the change not enough to be noticeable by anyone save his blood brother. "Narnia can't lose her High King. This country needs you! _I _need you!" he admitted unashamedly, knowing just how true it was; he knew it wasn't possible for him to live in a world that Peter did not exist in. "You're my _brother_, Peter. I can't lose you. And I nearly did." He saw those same images of Peter on the battlefield, pale and smeared with the life seeping away from him, and he nearly choked. "Do you honestly think any of us could function without you? You _have _to return from battles alive! That's why I'm here, to guard your back and make sure you don't do anything so stupidly noble that you nearly die. Which, if I may add, almost _did _happen because I wasn't there to keep you from getting hurt, and there was absolutely nothing I could do because _YOU LEFT ME BEHIND_!"

As he finished screaming, his throat scratchy and voice rough, Edmund was left glaring at his brother, eyes burning and gulping down air into lungs that did not want to function.

He watched Peter's face, saw the seriousness of it slowly give way just barely to a quick, melancholy twist of the right corner of his mouth. "Ed. What do you want me to say?"

Edmund turned away from him, too tired to yell anymore and only managing a thick attempt at a scornful laugh. "Nothing. It's not my place to expect anything from you."

"You should expect _everything _from me," his brother argued, voice intense, and he wasn't Narnia's Magnificent King at that moment; Edmund heard his brother and his brother alone. When Peter came to stand in front of him, Edmund stared down, but Peter continued. "I know you're angry with me, but try to see it from my point of view. You could barely even handle a sword for more than ten minutes, and I didn't—"

"Yeah, I get that," Edmund said, finally looking back to the older king. "I know you think I would have been in the way and you didn't want me there, but that doesn't matter because that's where I was supposed to be." Edmund could have cared less if Peter liked it or not, and he didn't care if he would have been a hindrance; his shoulder had been fine, after all, and he would have been able to take care of both himself and Peter if his hardheaded brother would have just understood that fact.

Instead of the quiet argument he had expected, Edmund suddenly found himself looking up into icy hot eyes. "Listen to me, you idiot!" Peter shouted, reaching out to hold him fast by the shoulders so tightly that his fingers pressed into Edmund's skin, and the younger man couldn't move or fight or do anything; that was something about Peter, the blonde man always able to do this to him at the most inopportune moments. "You never get in my way, and I would never, _ever_, not want you fighting beside me," he said with so much conviction that it made Edmund's heart skip a beat. "Even when I'm scared to death that you're going to get hurt again and nearly _die _like you did the first time, I want you with me because that's where you belong! I didn't let you come with us because I was afraid you'd get hurt even worse, and I wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, just like before. I'm not that brave, Ed; I can't risk that!"

As the words tore from Peter, honest and heartfelt, Edmund found himself beginning to fall apart. Peter knew well just how much Edmund needed to be there at the battles, needed to be beside him; and yet, just like always, Peter had put the well being of his sibling above his own and had made him stay behind. But he did not understand the depth of Edmund's feeling because Peter had never been made to stay behind while Edmund went off and risked his life for his home and family and everything he held dear.

Against his well, his anger began stealing away, his breathing uneven. "Peter, you…you still don't get it."

"Then help me get it." One of the hands on his shoulders moved to grab the back of his neck, Peter's palm calloused and warm and enough to make Edmund nearly lose his dignity entirely; when was the last time he had felt his brother's touch? "Edmund, I know you're angry with me, and I am sorry for that." He gave a soft sigh. "But I do not regret the decision of not allowing you to go. I got hurt; I'm scared to even imagine what might have happened to you."

Edmund's lips parted on the jagged breath that tore through his body and made the next breath near impossible. He had known the whole time why Peter had been so adamant in his refusal to let him come, just being his overprotective, wonderful idiot of a big brother that he loved more than life itself. But he'd been selfish and had focused solely on his own pain, not the worry his brother would have felt had he gone. And in the light of this knowledge, the knowledge that had always been there but Edmund had never tried to see, he could feel no more anger; it slipped through every pore and fled his heart, leaving him shaky and unstable, the same terrified child be had been the first time he'd stood before Peter in Aslan's camp.

Without him even noticing, Peter had released the hand from his neck and placed two of his fingers to Edmund's lips, lips that would not still into a straight line no matter how he tried. "Brother?" Peter asked him, the title pulling at his every heartstring. "Say something."

He had to get away. Fast. Now.

Edmund brought his arm back and then threw it forward, his fist aimed at Peter's chest, but was easily stopped by a hand catching hold of his. He inhaled through his teeth, then threw another punch with his left hand, less power behind this one; he didn't have much strength left. Peter latched onto this hand as well without any trouble, and then Edmund was yanking his arms back, trying to free himself from the shackles his brother's hands were around his wrists. If he didn't leave now…

"Let go!" He pulled against Peter's hold, eyes on the floor, the bed, the desk, just a long as they weren't on his brother. But soon, his overtired body began to slacken and he was unable to fight as violently, and even then Peter's hands did not release him. It wasn't until he was fighting for breath, bent against the strain his body was up against, that he felt Peter free one hand and lift the other up, his long fingers gently unfolding it from the first Edmund had it in, a thumb brushing over the tendons and veins in the back of his hand. And he could do nothing but watch, too weak to fight him anymore and not wanting to, his vision blurred by wetness. Looking at their hands—his, slimmer and more agile, and Peter's, tan and longer—Edmund watched as Peter raised their hands up and brushed his lips over his knuckles.

Edmund shook, bighting down the shaken breath that tried to leave him, hand trembling. _"Peter." _He was tearing apart, watching his brother's lips press a pure, solid kiss to his fingers, the back of his hand, his breath wafting over his skin and beard tickling.

Peter looked up at him, smile slightly crooked and full of unrestrained love. "Edmund."

He did not even feel his legs give out from under him until he was just above the floor, arms catching him at the last moment and lowering him so that he was half collapsed against Peter. "Hey! Ed, what's wrong?"

Edmund couldn't answer. If he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure what kind of sound would come out. Instead, her shook his head, closing his eyes when his sight became completely obscured by tears, and as his lids slid closed, a tear fell.

Above him, Peter stopped breathing. "_Edmund?_"

"I am not _crying_!" he cried out defiantly, voice far too thick to be believable. "I'm _not_!"

He was. He was crying a lot, tears streaming fast down his face and wearing worn paths, his heart fit to burst and shoulders quivering so that he could barely draw breath. Salty wetness coated his lips and ran down his throat, and when he opened his eyes, he saw them falling onto Peter's hands in fat drops.

Edmund hated crying, hated feeling weak or vulnerable, even before Peter sometimes. But not now. It was such a relief to actually be crying that he wasn't ashamed or humiliated because he had finally broken down and was clinging fast to Peter, afraid to let him go; if he did, would he really be there when he looked up? He felt small again, like in that first year when he had began growing comfortable with Peter and the love he felt for his brother, but it was not a bad feeling. Hiccoughing and sniffling, he leaned his head against Peter's strong chest and sobbed. "I missed you…I missed you _so much_…"

"Sorry." Hands caught in his hair, lips at the top of his head, and Peter was holding him in return. "I'm so sorry, Edmund," he said, his voice cracking. "For everything. Please…please say you'll forgive me."

And he couldn't help it: Edmund laughed, though it wasn't anything more than a sob. He grasped his brother's tear dampened hands as tightly as he could, bringing them to press a trembling kiss to each of them. "Peter…" Tears coming too fast now, he could not finish. He kissed his brother's fingers, just as Peter had done for him moments ago. "Of _course _I forgive you. I can't not. You know that."

Above him, Peter chuckled thickly. "And I'm thankful for it. But I was afraid it might take more than an apology for you to actually say it."

With a cut off sniff, Edmund touched Peter's hand to his eyes and forehead. "I don't even need an apology. Just the way you looked at me was enough." The disgrace was traveling fast through his body, exiting as teary breaths. "It should be _me _asking _you _for forgiveness."

He felt Peter's hands move to where they were on the back of his shoulders, nimble fingers running in massaging circles. "Why would you say that? You've done nothing wrong."

"I wasn't fair to you," Edmund admitted, voice beginning to steady out. "And I overreacted. I know you were doing what was best, but…it still felt like you were torturing me by forcing me to remain here. It's my job to keep you safe." He was unable to fight the shudder that ran up his body and hid his face the older man's tunic, releasing Peter's hands so he could latch onto the material.

"Are you speaking as my fellow king, or as my brother?" his brother inquired, tone slightly joking.

"Both," was Edmund's quiet response. "Don't you have any idea what it did to me when I heard you'd been wounded? Peter, I was…I was so scared."

Peter buried his face in his hair, his breaths deep. "And how do you think I feel when I hear you've been wounded a half-day's ride away, and I'm unable to do anything? When I have to wait an entire afternoon, night, and morning, wondering if your wound has turned without the cordial and knowing it's my fault if it does because I wouldn't let Lucy bring it along?"

_He's thinking of that again_, Edmund thought, remembering the pain of the arrow as it sunk into his flesh, of the ripping sensation it had left him with once Lucy had pulled it out. "It wasn't serious. I was fine."

"And so was I. And you knew I was alright. But did that make you worry any less?"

Edmund could say nothing, tempted to remain where he was hidden. He shook, then slowly rose up and met Peter's gentle smile and even gentler eyes, teeth digging into the inside of his bottom lip and tears coming so fast that Peter's image became indistinct. "No," he answered, fighting a sob.

Peter's smile softened even further, and he touched Edmund's cheek. "Exactly. Edmund, anything that happens to you is of importance to me. Never forget that."

He shut his eyes, fighting the tears even as they continued to well up and stream down his face, trying to laugh and failing.

Fingers were at his temples, pushing aside the hair that fell over his eyes, and Edmund heard Peter exhale, the way he did when he was smiling. "Do you remember what you said to me before I left?"

Edmund's eyes opened wide, blinking out tear after tear, and he smiled shakily. How could he forget? That day had been especially dismal and difficult for him, having to watch Peter and the others go forward while he was forced to remain behind, and he had been very surly that morning. He'd managed to smile for Lucy and held her in a tight hug, but then he'd been left facing Peter, something he had been dreading, and he'd kept his eyes downcast when the elder came to stand before him. But then Peter had surprised him by stepping forward and cupping his neck, his blue eyes steady and apologetic and filled with love and pain. And then he had spoken so softly to him so that only he could hear and with so much fire that the very words kindled something Edmund had been trying to fight for the last several days: the fact that he wouldn't be complete without his brother there to make up the other half of his heart.

And then, to make everything ten times worse for himself, he'd thrown himself against Peter and locked his arms around his neck while Peter's wrapped around his back, Edmund's hands gripping at his shoulders and hair, and he had buried his face against the Magnificent's neck and given the only blessing he knew to give.

Face hot, Edmund looked away and twisted his fingers where they held onto the elder's shirt. "May…may Aslan guide your steps and direct your blade. May he keep you from harm and guard you from death, grant you clarity, and present you with the courage your heart requires. And may…may by Aslan's good grace you return safely home." He tried to laugh, the sound full of tears, and he looked up and smiled at the brother he had been so afraid he would never see again, the one who was still wonderful to Edmund, even with his face hazed by wetness. "So you had better bring your sorry carcass back to us."

Edmund suddenly found himself pressed into a solid chest, Peter's arms tight around him, and he sighed, finally letting himself completely sink into the warmth and comfort of his brother, sliding his arm around the elder king.

"I kept my word, didn't I?" Peter asked.

He nodded. "I knew you would." Aware that, at the moment, he was already more vulnerable then he had been in a long while, he dug his face into Peter's shoulder, snuggling in against the blessedly alive heat. "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

_Might as well say it; it's true, after all._ "I know I hardly ever tell you this, but I love you something fierce. And I'm glad you're home," Edmund admitted quietly, words honest and naked and wobbly and face burning with heat.

The man above him stopped breathing for a moment, and the beginnings of awkwardness traced up Edmund's spine. But then hands tangled in his hair, and a deep, touched voice said, "I'm glad I'm home, too."

For the next several minutes, neither said anything. Edmund took even, calming breaths, pushing the tears aside until they were nothing but an occasional hiccup, and from what he could tell, Peter seemed satisfied to just stroke his fingers through his hair and along the back of his neck, once in a while touching his jaw comfortingly. Soon, Edmund could feel everything catching up with him: the screaming, the pushing and struggling, the crying…he was getting sleepy, and he didn't like it. Now that Peter was with him and everything was back to normal, he wanted nothing more than to stay alert and talk with his brother, to just be with him.

"You're going to catch a fever, brooding like you've been."

Edmund nearly laugh, noting the way his body seemed too warm, his skin clammy and thoughts just the slightest bit fuzzy, and he lifted his head and wiped a shirt sleeve under his nose. "I think I already have." He blew out a breath. "Great."

"You have no one to blame but yourself."

For a moment, Edmund did not understand the joking tone with which his brother had spoken; for just that one second, mild pain irrupted throughout him. But then he realized that his brother hadn't really thought about what he had said either, because he saw Peter's eyes widen, the hand still on his shoulder tightening as he said quickly, "Ed, I didn't mean it like that."

Edmund smiled understandingly, well aware that Peter would never be that harsh on purpose. "I know. And don't worry," he said, leaning into Peter again, "I don't blame you. I'm the one who went and got himself shot. You were just trying to keep me safe, making me stay home." Edmund sighed. "Sorry for all the trouble I put you through. Next time this happens—_if _this happens—it won't be like this," he corrected; if he had his way, Peter would never leave his sight again. "I know it won't."

"You have nothing to apologize for. But I get where you're coming from, and I know what you mean." Then, with his face in Edmund's hair, Peter kissed his head.

Peter wasn't as openly affectionate as he had once been; adulthood had changed that. But he still had his moments where, when it was just the two of them, or even amongst their sisters, he would be especially demonstrative and bestow a quick kiss to Edmund's forehead. Edmund always allowed this, though he usually pretended to mind it and sometimes even accepted it without a word of refusal. Now was one of those former times, and while a blush bloomed over his cheeks, he smiled, keeping his face against Peter's shirt. "You don't have to treat me like I'm a little kid," he began. "I _am _a king, after all."

To Edmund's surprise, his brother pulled back. "You're right: you aren't a little kid anymore, and I forget that sometimes."

Eyes flying open, he looked up at Peter, puzzled and a little hurt, though he would never have admitted it. His brother had never taken his age into account before, so why would he now?

And then Peter pulled him forward and had his mouth pressed to his forehead, and Edmund could feel him smiling, the display of affection making every word choke off in Edmund's throat. "But you _are _my little brother, even if you're a king, and I'm going to treat you as such. If I recall, I said I would coddle you even when we're in our twenties," Peter said, grinning down at him, tired face content. "You still have another two years before you can really start complaining."

Edmund felt himself smile, and then he was laughing, leaning forward to bump his head to Peter's. But then his smile slipped and he was trying to keep his mouth closed as a giant yawn overtook him, reminding him that his body wanted and needed rest.

Peter laughed. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

To stress the point, another yawn came upon him and Edmund had to speak through it, the words garbled. "'m not sleepy." When Peter laughed at his attempt at denial, he glared halfheartedly at him. But then he noticed just how pronounced the circles were beneath Peter's eyes, just how badly his beard was in need of a trim, how much fatigue his shoulders held; just like him, his brother hadn't been getting very much rest. He raised his fingers, brushing them over the purplish skin beneath Peter's right eye, then his left. "You're exhausted. Have you even been sleeping?"

Peter's face tightened, though he tried to play it off with a smile. "Excuse me, but I had better things to do. Like plan a battle, for instance."

Edmund scowled. "That's not a straight answer, Peter." He paused ever so slightly, ignoring the heaviness in his chest and stomach. "It's not the wound, is it?"

Slowly, Peter smiled, eyes faraway for a moment as he remembered something. "Not anymore."

So it had. Of course it had, all serious wounds did leave behind traces of pain for the first day or two; Edmund remembered this especially from the round scar he had on his abdomen, his first battle wound. Leave it to Peter to get himself hurt so badly that it had affected his sleep. He frowned. "Let me see."

Peter blinked at him, one blonde eyebrow raised. "What? No!"

"Yes."

"I think we've made it clear that we don't do well seeing each other's wounds," Peter stated with small traces of pain in his eyes, and Edmund knew Peter was remembering all the wounds he had sustained, the scars that curled around his body, just as they did Peter's. Edmund did better when it came to examining these marks, but it was still always difficult when Peter stripped his shirt off and revealed a darkened bite mark or thin knife wounds.

Edmund smiled slightly, knowing he would be acting the same way; he'd done it many a time. "Just let me see it. I promise, no freaking out," he assured.

Edmund waited, watching his brother frown.

Peter finally sighed, giving in, and began to push him away so he could stand. Once he was up, he offered his hand for Edmund to take, which he gladly accepted; he wasn't sure if he would be able to get up by himself, and was soon on his feet, watching Peter expectantly. His brother examined him, eyes hesitant, then began drawing his tunic out over his belt, staring down and away from Edmund with a tight jaw as he lifted the garment and slid his arm free until Edmund could see his side and chest.

His gut knotted in on itself, pulling and twisting and filling with cold lead, and Edmund was subject to a painful head rush as he took in the long, uneven scar that traveled down his brother's side, going down into his breeches. It was clearly a sword wound, though Edmund had never seen one like it, the jagged blade having torn deep into his brother's flesh. Trying not to cringe, he slowly stuck out his hand and hesitantly touched the tips of his fingers to it; it was still puffy, cooler than the rest of Peter's skin.

When Peter winced, Edmund pulled his hand away, the action eating at him. "Well, it…it's not exactly what I imagined."

Peter let his shirt fall back over the scar, a nervous smile on his face. "What, you thought I'd be all hacked up?"

"That would be the worst scenario."

His brother's eyes tightened. "Ed—"

"It's alright," he interrupted quickly, flashing a smile that was, like Peter's eyes, pained. "I just thank Aslan for giving you the sense to move before you were cut in half."

Peter was quiet, taking his words in, his expression evening out until he released a breath and smiled slightly. "I guess I should go get some sleep," he said. "I promised the girls I would."

Excitement and anticipation swirling in his belly, Edmund lifted his shoulder in a shrug, hoping he wasn't being too casual while still hiding his hope. "Might as well sleep here."

He watched the High King grin. "I was referring to here."

Cheeks warm, the Just grinned, knowing there was no point in arguing but doing it nonetheless just because it was what he always did. "Well, only if you want to."

"I want to."

Edmund tossed his head, trying not to grin too widely and failing.

"I'll just go clean up real quick," Peter said, about to turn back to the door and head to his own room.

Edmund grabbed his wrist, staying true to the fact that Peter would not, for the next several hours or days or weeks, leave his sight. "Don't worry about it." He tugged him along, walking backwards to where the bed was.

The elder resisted, a smile on his worn-out face. "I can't get in a bed like this."

Looking down at the travel clothes he wore, covered with dirt and grime, Edmund gave a very slight nod. "Yes, you are filthy."

Peter pursed his lips. "Now where have I heard that before?"

"My guess would be Susan."

His brother laughed, shaking his head. "Really. I'll get your bed all dirty."

Did he really think he would get away? Edmund tightened his hold, a bit shy due to his own affections. "Like I care. Just take you boots and sword off an lie down already. There's lots of sleep needing to be caught up on, and I intend to begin now." He released Peter's wrist and flopped into his bed, propping his arm up and smiling eagerly, knowing there was no way Peter would even consider leaving.

His brother rolled his eyes and grinned, then quickly slid his mantle off, followed by his boots. Edmund watched his every move, drinking in the sight of him, and when Peter would smile up at him, it was like a fresh breath of air. Once he was without his golden crown and he had Rhindon propped against the wall, he began sliding into the bed.

"Honestly, Ed, I get that you haven't been sleeping well, but you don't really need me right here to fall asleep, do you?"

_Dolt_. Edmund turned away from him, afraid his eyes would say too much, then reached over and took hold of Peter's sleeve. Ignoring the heat creeping down his neck, he pulled his brother's arm over his side so that it was wrapped around him. "Is it so strange that I do?" he challenged.

Behind him, Peter chuckled softly and placed his forehead to Edmund's back, his arm pulling Edmund firmly against his chest. "Well, then," he started in a low voice, "if I want you sleeping off that fever, I most definitely will stay. But it's mainly because I missed you."

Edmund snickered, worming himself against Peter. "Thanks for caring. I'll be fine when I wake."

"I would hope so. You know just how much the girls like playing nursemaid."

The laughter that hit him was sudden and real, the most Edmund had laughed in days, and he grinned over his shoulder at his mother-henning brother. "You're a fine one to talk, as you have an uncanny knack for hovering. Really, Peter, you're worse than a girl!"

He watched Peter blink large china eyes, lips slightly parted. But then he was laughing too, eyes like pools of clear blue water. "Lion's Mane, Ed, you're a wonder." As if to emphasize his feelings, Peter kissed his neck.

Edmund's breath stuttered, his body tensing at the unexpected sentiment, but then he relaxed when he realized it was a good feeling, the heat now blossoming from the place where Peter's lips were. He felt him grin. "If I may be so blunt, little brother, that's a bit much coming from you when _you _yourself are just as protective."

Edmund closed the eyes he had just rolled, grinning sleepily. "Your Highness is becoming incoherent from lack of proper sleep. How about you close your mouth and shut your eyes and see where that gets you, hmm?"

And Peter obeyed, burying his face in Edmund's hair and breathing out a relieved breath, just as Edmund did. Sleep was coming fast, stealing his consciousness sooner than he wanted it to, but as long as Peter was with him, sleep wouldn't be so bad.

As his senses began to fade away and all he could feel was his brother's warmth, Edmund was sure he felt a loving, sandpapery tongue against his forehead like that of a large, very familiar cat.


End file.
